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OLD CREOLE DAYS 


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OLD 

CREOLE DAYS 



WITH AN ETCHING BY PERCY MORAN 




NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 


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MADAME DELPHINE 





MADAME DELPHINE 
I 

An Old House 

FEW steps from the St. Charles Hotel, 
in New Orleans, brings you to and 
across Canal Street, the central avenue 
of the city, and to that corner where the 
flower-women sit at the inner and outer edges of 
the arcaded sidewalk, and make the air sweet with 
their fragrant merchandise. The crowd — and if 
it is near the time of the carnival it will be great — 
will follow Canal Street. 

But you turn, instead, into the quiet, narrow 
way which a lover of Creole antiquity, in fondness 
for a romantic past, is still prone to call the Rue 
Royale. You will pass a few restaurants, a few 
auction-rooms, a few furniture warehouses, and 
will hardly realize that you have left behind you 



OLD CREOLE DAYS 


the activity and clatter of a city of merchants be- 
fore you find yourself in a region of architectural 
decrepitude, where an ancient and foreign-seem- 
ing domestic life, in second stories, overhangs the 
ruins of a former commercial prosperity, and upon 
every thing has settled down a long sabbath of de- 
cay. The vehicles in the street are few in num- 
ber, and are merely passing through ; the stores 
are shrunken into shops ; you see here and there, 
like a patch of bright mould, the stall of that sig- 
nificant fungus, the Chinaman. Many great doors 
are shut and clamped and grown gray with cob- 
web ; many street windows are nailed up ; half the 
balconies are begrimed and rust-eaten, and many 
of the humid arches and alleys which characterize 
the older Franco-Spanish piles of stuccoed brick 
betray a squalor almost oriental. 

Yet beauty lingers here. To say nothing of the 
picturesque, sometimes you get sight of comfort, 
sometimes of opulence, through the unlatched 
wicket in some porte-cochhe — red-painted brick 
pavement, foliage of dark palm or pale banana, 
marble or granite masonry, and blooming par- 
terres ; or through a chink between some pair of 
heavy batten window-shutters, opened with an 
almost reptile wariness, your eye gets a glimpse 
of lace and brocade upholstery, silver and bronze, 
and much similar rich antiquity. 

The faces of the inmates are in keeping ; of the 
passengers in the street a sad proportion are dingy 
and shabby; but just when these are putting you 


MADAME DELPHINE 


3 


off your guard, there will pass you a woman — 
more likely tw’o or three — of patrician beauty. 

Now, if you will go far enough down this old 
street, you will see, as you approach its intersec- 
tion with . Names in that region elude one 

like ghosts. 

However, as you begin to find the way a trifle 
more open, you will not fail to notice on the right- 
hand side, about midway of the square, a small, 
low, brick house of a story and a half, set out upon 
the sidewalk, as weather-beaten and mute as an 
aged beggar fallen asleep. Its corrugated roof 
of dull red tiles, sloping down toward you with an 
inward curve, is overgrown with weeds, and in the 
fall of the year is gay with the yellow plumes of 
the golden-rod. You can almost touch with your 
cane the low edge of the broad, overhanging eaves. 
The batten shutters at door and window, with 
hinges like those of a postern, are shut wdth a grip 
that makes one’s knuckles and nails feel lacerated. 
Save in the brick -work itself there is not a cranny. 
You would say the house has the lockjaw. There 
are two doors, and to each a single chipped and 
battered marble step. Continuing on down the 
sidewalk, on a line with the house, is a garden 
masked from view by a high, close board-fence. 
You may see the tops of its fruit-trees — pome- 
granate, peach, banana, fig, pear, and particularly 
one large orange, close by the fence, that must be 
very old. 

The residents over the narrow way, who live in 


4 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


a three-story house, originally of much pretension, 
but from whose front door hard times have re- 
moved almost all vestiges of paint, will tell you : 

“ Yass, de ’ouse is in’abit; ’tis live in.” 

And this is likely to be all the information you 
get — not that they would not tell, but they can- 
not grasp the idea that you wish to know — until, 
possibly, just as you are turning to depart, your 
informant, in a single word and with the most 
evident non-appreciation of its value, drops the 
simple key to the whole matter: 

“ Dey’s quadroons.” 

He may then be aroused to mention the better 
appearance of the place in former years, when the 
houses of this region generally stood farther apart, 
and that garden comprised the whole square. 

Here dwelt, sixty years ago and more, one Del- 
phine Carraze ; or, as she was commonly desig- 
nated by the few who knew her, Madame Delphine. 
That she owned her home, and that it had been 
given her by the then deceased companion of her 
days of beauty, were facts so generally admitted as 
to be, even as far back as that sixty years ago, no 
longer a subject of gossip. She was never pointed 
out by the denizens of the quarter as a character, 
nor her house as a “feature.” It would have 
passed all Creole powers of guessing to divine 
what you could find worthy of inquiry concerning 
a retired quadroon woman ; and not the least puz- 
zled of all would have been the timid and restive 
Madame Delphine herself. 


MADAME DELPHINE 


5 


II 

Mada7ne Delphine 

URING the first quarter of the pres- 
ent century, the free quadroon caste of 
New Orleans was in its golden age. 
Earlier generations — sprung, upon 
the one hand, from the merry gallants of a 
French colonial military service which had grown 
gross by affiliation with Spanish-American fron- 
tier life, and, upon the other hand, from comely 
Ethiopians culled out of the less negroidal types 
of African live goods, and bought at the ships’ 
side with vestiges of quills and cowries and copper 
wire still in their head-dresses, — these earlier 
generations, with scars of battle or private ren- 
contre still on the fathers, and of servitude on the 
manumitted mothers, afforded a mere hint of the 
splendor that was to result from a survival of the 
fairest through seventy-five years devoted to the 
elimination of the black pigment and the cultiva- 
tion of hyperian excellence and nymphean grace 
and beauty. Nor, if we turn to the present, is the 



6 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


evidence much stronger which is offered by the 
gens de couleur whom you may see in the quadroon 
quarter this afternoon, with “ Ichabod ” legible on 
their murky foreheads through a vain smearing of 
toilet powder, dragging their chairs down to the 
narrow gateway of their close-fenced gardens, and 
staring shrinkingly at you as you pass, like a nest 
of yellow kittens. 

But as the present century was in its second 
and third decades, the quadroones (for we must 
contrive a feminine spelling to define the strict 
limits of the caste as then established) came forth 
in splendor. Old travellers spare no terms to tell 
their praises, their faultlessness of feature, their 
perfection of form, their varied styles of beauty, 

— for there were even pure Caucasian blondes 
among them, — their fascinating manners, their 
sparkling vivacity, their chaste and pretty wit, 
their grace in the dance, their modest propriety, 
their taste and elegance in dress. In the gentlest 
and most poetic sdhse they were indeed the sirens 
of this land, where it seemed “ always afternoon ” 

— a momentary triumph of an Arcadian over a 
Christian civilization, so beautiful and so seductive 
that it became the subject of special chapters by 
writers of the day more original than correct as 
social philosophers. 

The balls that were got up for them by the male 
sang-pur were to that day what the carnival is to 
the present. Society balls given the same nights 
proved failures through the coincidence. The 


MADAME DELPHI NE 


7 


magnates of government, — municipal, state, 
federal, — those of the army, of the learned pro- 
fessions and of the clubs, — in short, the white 
male aristocracy in every thing save the ecclesi- 
astical desk,— were there. Tickets were high- 
priced to insure the exclusion of the vulgar. No 
distinguished stranger was allowed to miss them. 
They were beautiful ! They were clad in silken 
extenuations from the throat to the feet, and wore, 
withal, a pathos in their charm that gave them a 
family likeness to innocence. 

Madame Delphine, were you not a stranger, 
could have told you all about it ; though hardly, 
I suppose, without tears. 

But at the time of which we would speak (1821- 
22) her day of splendor was set, and her husband 
— let us call him so for her sake — was long dead. 
He was an American, and, if we take her word for 
it, a man of noble heart and extremely hand- 
some; but this is knowledge which we can do 
without. 

Even in those days the house was always shut, 
and Madame Delphine’s chief occupation and end 
in life seemed to be to keep well locked up 
in-doors. She was an excellent person, the 
neighbors said, — a very worthy person ; and 
they were, maybe, nearer correct than they knew. 
They rarely saw her save when she went to or 
returned from church; a small, rather tired- 
looking, dark quadroone of very good features 
and a gentle thouglitfulness of expression which 


8 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


would take long to describe : call it a widow’s 


look. 


In speaking of Madame Delphine’s house, men- 
tion should have been made of a gate in the fence 
on the Royal-street sidewalk. It is gone now, 
and was out of use then, being fastened once for 
all by an iron staple clasping the cross-bar and 
driven into the post. 

Which leads us to speak of another person. 



v 


MADAME DELPHINE 


9 


III 

Capitaine Lemaitre 

was one of those men that might be 
any age, — thirty, forty, forty-five; 
there was no telling from his face 
what was years and what was only 
weather. His countenance was of a grave and 
quiet, but also luminous, sort, which was instantly 
admired and ever afterward remembered, as was 
also the fineness of his hair and the blueness of his 
eyes. Those pronounced him youngest who scru- 
tinized his face the closest. But waiving the dis- 
cussion of age, he was odd, though not with the 
oddness that he who had reared him had striven 
to produce. 

He had not been brought up by mother or 
father. He had lost both in infancy, and had 
fallen to the care of a rugged old military grandpa 
of the colonial school, whose unceasing endeavor 
had been to make “ his boy ” as savage and 
ferocious a holder of unimpeachable social rank 
as it became a pure-blooded French Creole to be 



lO 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


who would trace his pedigree back to the god 
Mars. 

“ Remember, my boy,” was the adjuration 
received by him as regularly as his waking cup of 
black coffee, “ that none of your family line ever 
kept the laws of any government or creed.” And 
if it was well that he should bear this in mind, it 
was well to reiterate it persistently, for, from the 
nurse’s arms, the boy wore a look, not of docility 
so much as of gentle, Judicial benevolence. The 
domestics of the old man’s house used to shed 
tears of laughter to see that look on the face of a 
babe. His rude guardian addressed himself to 
the modification of this facial expression ; it had 
^;iot enough of majesty in it, for instance, or of 
large dare-deviltry ; but with care these could be 
made to come. 

And, true enough, at twenty-one (in Ursin 
Lemaitre), the labors of his grandfather were an 
apparent success. He was not rugged, nor was 
he loud-spoken, as his venerable trainer would 
have liked to present him to society ; but he was 
as serenely terrible as a well-aimed rifle, and the 
old man looked upon his results with pride. He 
had cultivated him up to that pitch where he 
scorned to practise any vice, or any virtue, that 
did not include the principle of self-assertion. A 
few touches only were wanting here and there to 
achieve perfection, when suddenly the old man 
died. Yet it was his proud satisfaction, before he 
finally laid down, to see Ursin a favored com- 


MADAME DELPHINE 


11 


panion and the peer, both in courtesy and pride, 
of those polished gentlemen famous in history, 
the brothers Lafitte. 

The two Lafittes were, at the time young 
Lemaitre reached his majority (say 1808 or 1812), 
only merchant-blacksmiths, so to speak, a term 
intended to convey the idea of blacksmiths who 
never soiled their hands, who were men of capital, 
stood a little higher than the clergy, and moved 
in society among its autocrats. But they were 
full of possibilities, men of action, and men, too, 
of thought, with already a pronounced disbelief in 
the custom-house. In these days of big carnivals 
they would have been patented as the dukes of 
Little Manchac and Barataria. 

Young Ur sin Lemaitre (in full the name was 
Lemaitre- Vignevielle) had not only the hearty 
friendship of these good people, but also a natural 
turn for accounts ; and as his two friends were 
looking about them with an enterprising eye, it 
easily resulted that he presently connected him- 
self with the blacksmithing profession. Not ex- 
actly at the forge in the Lafittes’ famous smithy, 
among the African Samsons, who, with their 
shining black bodies bared to the waist, made the 
Rue St. Pierre ring with the stroke of their ham- 
mers ; but as a — there was no occasion to mince 
the word in those days — smuggler. 

Smuggler — patriot — where was the difference ? 
Beyond the ken of a community to which the 
enforcement of the revenue laws had long been 


12 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


merely so much out of every man’s pocket and 
dish, into the all-devouring treasury of Spain. At 
this date they had come under a kinder yoke, and 
to a treasury that at least echoed when the cus- 
toms were dropped into it ; but the change was 
still new. What could a man be more than Capi- 
taine Lemaitre was — the soul of honor, the pink 
of courtesy, with the courage of the lion, and the 
magnanimity of the elephant; frank — the very 
exchequer of truth ! Nay, go higher still : his 
paper was good in Toulouse Street. To the 
gossips in the gaming-clubs he was the culmi- 
nating proof that smuggling was one of the 
sublimer virtues. 

.Years went by. Events transpired which have 
their place in history. Under a government 
which the community by and by saw was con- 
ducted in their interest, smuggling began to lose 
its respectability and to grow disreputable, hazard- 
ous, and debased. In certain onslaughts made 
upon them by officers of the law, some of the 
smugglers became murderers. The business 
became unprofitable for a time until the enter- 
prising Lafittes — thinkers — bethought them of 
a corrective — “ privateering.” 

Thereupon the United States Government set 
a price upon their heads. Later yet it became 
known that these outlawed pirates had been 
offered money and rank by Great Britain if they 
would join her standard, then hovering about the 
water-approaches to their native city, and that they 


MADAME DELPHINE 


13 


had spurned the bribe; wherefore their heads 
were ruled out of the market, and, meeting and 
treating with Andrew Jackson, they were received 
as lovers of their country, and as compatriots 
fought in the battle of New Orleans at the head 
of their fearless men, and — here tradition takes 
up the tale — were never seen afterward. 

Capitaine Lemaitre was not among the killed or 
wounded, but he was among the missing. 



14 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


IV 

Three Friends 

HE roundest and happiest - looking 
priest in the city of New Orleans was 
a little man fondly known among his 
people as P^re Jerome. He was a 
Creole and a member of one of the city’s leading 
families. His dwelling was a little frame cottage, 
standing on high pillars just inside a tall, close 
fence, and reached by a narrow out-door stair from 
the green batten gate. It was well surrounded 
by crape myrtles, and communicated behind by a 
descending stair and a plank-walk with the rear 
entrance of the chapel over whose worshippers he 
daily spread his hands in benediction. The name 
of the street — ah ! there is where light is wanting. 
Save the Cathedral and the Ursulines, there is very 
little of record concerning churches at that time, 
though they were springing up here and there. 
All there is certainty of is that Pere Jerome’s frame 
chapel was some little new-born “ down-town ” 
thing, that may have survived the passage of years. 




MADAME DELPHINE 


15 


or may have escaped “ Paxton’s Directory ” “ so 
as by fire.” His parlor was dingy and carpetless ; 
one could smell distinctly there the vow of poverty. 
His bed-chamber was bare and clean, and the bed 
in it narrow and hard ; but between the two was 
a dining-room that would tempt a laugh to the 
lips of any who looked in. The table was small, 
but stout, and all the furniture of the room sub- 
stantial, made of fine wood, and carved just enough 
to give the notion of wrinkling pleasantry. His 
mother’s and sister’s doing, P^re Jerome would 
explain; they would not permit this apartment — 
or department — to suffer. Therein, as well as in 
the parlor, there was odor, but of a more epicurean 
sort, that explained interestingly the Pere Jerome’s 
rotundity and rosy smile. 

In this room, and about this miniature round 
table, used sometimes to sit with Pere Jerome two 
friends to whom he was deeply attached — one, 
Evariste Varrillat, a playmate from early child- 
hood, now his brother-in-law; the other, Jean 
Thompson, a companion from youngest manhood, 
and both, like the little priest himself, the regretful 
rememberers of a fourth comrade who was a com- 
rade no more. Like Pere Jerome, they had come, 
through years, to the thick of life’s conflicts, — the 
priest’s brother-in-law a physician, the other an 
attorney, and brother-in-law to the lonely wan- 
derer, — yet they loved to huddle around this small 
board, and be boys again in heart while men in 
mind. Neither one nor another was leader. In 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


i6 

earlier days they had always yielded to him who 
no longer met with them a certain chieftainship, 
and they still thought of him and talked of him, 
and, in their conjectures, groped after him, as one 
of whom they continued to expect greater things 
than of themselves. 

They sat one day drawn thus close together, 
sipping and theorizing, speculating upon the na- 
ture of things in an easy, bold, sophomoric way, 
the conversation for the most part being in French, 
the native tongue of the doctor and priest, and 
spoken with facility by Jean Thompson the law- 
yer, who was half Americain ; but running some- 
times into English and sometimes into mild laugh- 
ter. Mention had been made of the absentee. 

P^re Jerome advanced an idea something like 
this : 

“ It is impossible for any finite mind to fix the 
degree of criminality of any human act or of any 
human life. The Infinite One alone can know 
how much of our sin is chargeable to us, and how 
much to our brothers or our fathers. We all par- 
ticipate in one another’s sins. There is a com- 
munity of responsibility attaching to every mis- 
deed. No human since Adam — nay, nor Adam 
himself — ever sinned entirely to himself. And 
so I never am called upon to contemplate a crime 
or a criminal but I feel my conscience pointing at 
me as one of the accessories.” 

“ In a word,” said Evariste Varrillat, the phy- 
sician, “you think we are partly to blame for the 
omission of many of your Paternosters, eh? ” 


MADAME DELPHINE 


17 


Father Jerome smiled. 

“No; a man cannot plead so in his own de- 
fence ; our first father tried that, but the plea was 
not allowed. But, now, there is our absent friend. 
I tell you truly this whole community ought to be 
recognized as partners in his moral errors. Among 
another people, reared under wiser care and with 
better companions, how different might he not 
have been ! How can we speak of him as a law- 
breaker who might have saved him from that 
name ? ” Here the speaker turned to Jean Thomp- 
son, and changed his speech to English. “ A lady 
sez to me to-day : ‘ Pere Jerome, ’ow dat is a dread- 
fool dat ’e gone at de coas’ of Cuba to be one cor- 
sair ! Ain’t it ? ’ ‘ Ah, madame,’ I sez, ‘ ’tis a 
terrible ! I ’ope de good God will fo’give me an’ 
you fo’ dat ! ’” 

Jean Thompson answered quickly : 

“ You should not have let her say that.” 

“ Mais, fo’ w’y ? ” 

“ Why, because, if you are partly responsible, 
you ought so much the more to do what you can 
to shield his reputation. You should have said,” 
— the attorney changed to French, — “‘He is no 
pirate ; he has merely taken out letters of marque 
and reprisal under the flag of the republic of Car- 
thagena ! ” 

bah!’’'* exclaimed Doctor Varrillat, and 
both he and his brother-in-law, the priest, laughed. 

“Why not ? ” demanded Thompson. 

“ Oh ! ” said the physician, with a shrug, “ say 
id thad way if you wand.” 


i8 OLD CREOLE DAYS 

Then, suddenly becoming serious, he was about 
to add something else, when Pere Jerome spoke. 

“ I will tell you what I could have said. I could 
have said : ‘ Madame, yes ; ’tis a terrible fo’ him. 
He stum’le in de dark ; but dat good God will mek 
it a mo' terrible fo’ dat man oohever he is, w’at put 
’at light out ! ” 

“ But how do you know he is a pirate ? ” de- 
manded Thompson, aggressively. 

“How do we know ?” said the little priest, re- 
turning to French. “Ah! there is no other ex- 
planation of the ninety-and-nine stories that come 
to us, from every port where ships arrive from the 
north coast of Cuba, of a commander of pirates 
there who is a marvel of courtesy and gentil- 
ity ” — 1 

“And whose name is Lafitte,” said the obstinate 
attorney. 

“ And who, nevertheless, is not Lafitte,” insisted 
P^re Jerome. 

“ Daz troo, Jean,” said Doctor Varrillat. “We 
hall know daz troo.” 

Pere Jerome leaned forward over the board and 
spoke, with an air of secrecy, in French. 

“You have heard of the ship which came into 
port here last Monday. You have heard that she 
was boarded by pirates, and that the captain of the 
ship himself drove them off.” 

“ An incredible story,” said Thompson. 

“ But not so incredible as the truth. I have it 
1 See gazettes of the period. 


MADAME DELPHI NE 


19 


from a passenger. There was on the ship a young 
girl who was very beautiful. She came on deck, 
where the corsair stood, about to issue his orders, 
and, more beautiful than ever in the desperation 
of the moment, confronted him with a small missal 
spread open, and, her finger on the Apostles’ Creed, 
commanded him to read. He read it, uncovering 
his head as he read, then stood gazing on her face, 
which did not quail ; and then with a low bow, 
said ; ‘ Give me this book and I will do your bid- 
ding.’ She gave him the book and bade him leave 
the ship, and he left it unmolested.” 

Pere Jerome looked from the physician to the 
attorney and back again, once or twice, with his 
dimpled smile. 

“ But he speaks English, they say,” said Jean 
Thompson. 

“ He has, no doubt, learned it since he left us,” 
said the priest. 

“ But this ship-master, too, says his men called 
him Lafitte.” 

“Lafitte? No. Do you not see ? It is your 
brother-in-law, Jean Thompson ! It is your wife’s 
brother! Not Lafitte, but” (softly) “ Lemaitre! 
Lemaitre ! Capitaine Ursin Lemaitre ! ” 

The two guests looked at each other with a 
growing drollery on either face, and presently 
broke into a laugh. 

“ Ah ! ” said the doctor, as the three rose up, 
“you juz kip dad cog-an’-bull fo’ yo’ negs sum- 
» 


mon. 


20 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


Pere Jerome’s eyes lighted up — 

“ I goin’ to do it ! ” 

“ I tell you,” said Evariste, turning upon him 
with sudden gravity, “iv dad is troo, I tell you 
w’ad is sure-sure! Ursin Lemaitre din kyare 
nut’n fo’ doze creed; he fall in lave!''^ 

Then, with a smile, turning to Jean Thompson, 
and back again to Pere Jerome : 

“ But anny’ow you tell it in dad summon dad ’e 
kyare fo’ dad creed.” 

Pere Jerome sat up late that night, writing a 
letter. The remarkable effects upon a certain 
mind, effects which we shall presently find him 
attributing solely to the influences of surrounding 
nature, may find for some a more sufficient expla- 
nation in the fact that this letter was but one of a 
series, and that in the rover of doubted identity 
and incredible eccentricity Pere Jerome had a reg- 
ular correspondent. 


MADAME DELPHINE 


21 


V 


The Cap Fits 



BOUT two months after the conversa- 
tion just given, and therefore some- 
where about the Christmas holidays 
of the year 1821, Pere Jerome delighted 
the congregation of his little chapel with the an- 
nouncement that he had appointed to preach a 
sermon in French on the following sabbath — not 
there, but in the cathedral. 

He was much beloved. Notwithstanding that 
among the clergy there were two or three who 
shook their heads and raised their eyebrows, and 
said he would be at least as orthodox if he did not 
make quite so much of the Bible and so little of 
the dogmas, yet “ the common people heard him 
gladly.” When told, one day, of the unfavorable 
whispers, he smiled a little and answered his in- 
formant, — whom he knew to be one of the whis- 
perers himself, — laying a hand kindly upon his 
shoulder : 

“ Father Murphy,” — or whatever the name was, 
— “ your words comfort me.” 


22 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


“ How is that ? ” 

Because — ‘ Va quum benedixerint mihi hoini- 

The appointed morning, when it came, was one 
of those exquisite days in which there is such a 
universal harmony, that worship rises from the 
heart like a spring. 

“ Truly,” said Pere Jerome to the companion 
who was to assist him in the mass, “ this is a sab- 
bath day which we do not have to make holy, but 
only to keep so.” 

Maybe it was one of the secrets of Pere Jerome’s 
success as a preacher, that he took more thought 
as to how he should feel, than as to what he should 
say. 

The cathedral of those days was called a very 
plain old pile, boasting neither beauty nor riches ; 
but to Pere Jerome it was very lovely; and before 
its homely altar, not homely to him, in the per- 
formance of those solemn offices, symbols of 
heaven’s mightiest truths, in the hearing of the 
organ’s harmonies, and the yet more eloquent in- 
terunion of human voices in the choir, in overlook- 
ing the worshipping throng which knelt under the 
soft, chromatic lights, and in breathing the sacri- 
ficial odors of the chancel, he found a deep and 
solemn joy ; and yet I guess the finest thought of 
his soul the while was one that came thrice and 
again : 

“ Be not deceived, Pere Jerome, because saintli- 
1 “Woe unto me when all men speak well of me ! ” 


MADAME DELPHINE 


23 


ness of feeling is easy here; you are the same 
priest who overslept this morning, and over-ate 
yesterday, and will, in some way, easily go wrong 
to-morrow and the day after.” 

He took it with him when — the Veni Creator 
sung — he went into the pulpit. Of the sermon 
he preached, tradition has preserved for us only a 
few brief sayings, but they are strong and sweet. 

“ My friends,” he said, — this was near the be- 
ginning, — “ the angry words of God’s book are 
very merciful — they are meant to drive us home ; 
but the tender words, my friends, they are some- 
times terrible ! Notice these, the tenderest words 
of the tenderest prayer that ever came from the 
lips of a blessed martyr — the dying words of 
the holy Saint Stephen, ‘ Lord, lay not this sin to 
their charge.’ Is there nothing dreadful in that? 
Read it thus : ‘ Lord, lay not this sin to their 
charge.’ Not to the charge of them who stoned 
him ? To whose charge then ? Go ask the holy 
Saint Paul. Three years afterward, praying in the 
temple at Jerusalem, he answered that question: 
‘I stood by and consented.’ He answered for 
himself only ; but the day must come when all that 
wicked council that sent Saint Stephen away to be 
stoned, and all that city of Jerusalem, must hold 
up the hand and say : ‘We, also. Lord — we stood 
by.’ Ah! friends, under the simpler meaning of 
that dying saint’s prayer for the pardon of his 
murderers is hidden the terrible truth that we all 
have a share in one another’s sins.” 


24 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


Thus Pere Jerome touched his key-note. All 
that time has spared us beside may be given in a 
few sentences. 

“ Ah ! ” he cried once, “ if it were merely my 
own sins that I had to answer for, I might hold 
up my head before the rest of mankind ; but no, 
no, my friends — we cannot look each other in the 
face, for each has helped the other to sin. Oh, 
where is there any room, in this world of common 
disgrace, for pride ? Even if we had no common 
hope, a common despair ought to bind us together 
and forever silence the voice of scorn ! ” 

And again, this : 

“Even in the promise to Noe, not again to de- 
stroy the race with a flood, there is a whisper of 
solemn warning. The moral account of the ante- 
diluvians was closed off and the balance brought 
down in the year of the deluge ; but the account of 
those who come after runs on and on, and the 
blessed bow of promise itself warns us that God 
will not stop it till the Judgment Day ! O God, I 
thank thee that that day must come at last, when 
thou wilt destroy the world, and stop the interest 
on my account !” 

It was about at this point that Pere Jerome no- 
ticed, more particularly than he had done before, 
sitting among the worshippers near him, a small, 
sad-faced woman, of pleasing features, but dark 
and faded, who gave him profound attention. With 
her was another in better dress, seemingly a girl 
still in her teens, thqugh her face and neck were 


MADAME DELPHI NE 


25 


scrupulously concealed by a heavy veil, and her 
hands, which were small, by gloves. 

“Quadroones,” thought he,with a stir of deep pity. 

Once, as he uttered some stirring word, he saw 
the mother and daughter (if such they were), 
while they still bent their gaze upon him, clasp 
each other’s hand fervently in the daughter’s lap. 
It was at these words ; 

“ My friends, there are thousands of people in 
this city of New Orleans to whom society gives 
the ten commandments of God with all the nets 
rubbed out ! Ah ! good gentlemen ! if God sends 
the poor weakling to purgatory for leaving the 
right path, where ought some of you to go who 
strew it with thorns and briers ! ” 

The movement of the pair was only seen be- 
cause he watched for it. He glanced that way 
again as he said : 

“ O God, be very gentle with those children 
who would be nearer heaven this day had they 
never had a father and mother, but had got their 
religious training from such a sky and earth as 
we have in Louisiana this holy morning! Ah! 
my friends, nature is a big-print catechism ! ” 

The mother and daughter leaned a little farther 
forward, and exchanged the same spasmodic hand- 
pressure as before. The mother’s eyes were full 
of tears. 

“I once knew a man,” continued the little 
priest, glancing to a side aisle where he had no- 
ticed Evariste and Jean sitting against each other, 


1 


26 


OLD CREOLE DA VS 


“ who was carefully taught, from infancy to man- 
hood, this single only principle of life : defiance. 
Not justice, not righteousness, not even gain ; but 
defiance : defiance to God, defiance to man, defi- 
ance to nature, defiance to reason ; defiance and 
defiance and defiance.” 

“ He is going to tell it ! ” murmured Evariste 
to Jean. 

“This man,” continued Pere Jerome, “became 
a smuggler and at last a pirate in the Gulf of Mex- 
ico. Lord, lay not that sin to his charge alone ! 
But a strange thing followed. Being in command 
of men of a sort that to control required to be kept 
at the austerest distance, he now found himself 
separated from the human world and thrown into 
the solemn companionship with the sea, with the 
air, with the storm, the calm, the heavens by day, 
the heavens by night. My friends, that was the 
first time in his life that he ever found himself in 
really good company. 

“ Now, this man had a great aptness for ac- 
counts. He had kept them — had rendered them. 
There was beauty, to him, in a correct, balanced, 
and closed account. An account unsatisfied was 
a deformity. The result is plain. That man, 
looking out night after night upon the grand and 
holy spectacle of the starry deep above and the 
watery deep below, was sure to find himself, 
sooner or later, mastered by the conviction that 
the great Author of this majestic creation keeps 
account of it ; and one night there came to him. 


MADAME DELPHINE 


27 


like a spirit walking on the sea, the awful, silent 
question : ‘ My account with God — how does it 
stand ? ’ Ah ! friends, that is a question which 
the book of nature does not answer. 

“ Did I say the book of nature is a catechism ? 
Yes. But, after it answers the first question with 
‘ God,’ nothing but questions follow ; and so, one 
day, this man gave a ship full of merchandise for 
one little book which answered those questions. 
God help him to understand it ! and God help you, 
monsieur, and you, madame, sitting here in your 
smuggled clothes, to beat upon the breast with me 
and cry, ‘ I, too, Lord — I, too, stood by and con- 
sented.’ ” 

P^re Jerome had not intended these for his 
closing words ; but just there, straight away be- 
fore his sight and almost at the farthest door, a 
man rose slowly from his seat and regarded him 
steadily with a kind, bronzed, sedate face, and the 
sermon, as if by a sign of command, was ended. 
While the Credo was being chanted he was still 
there ; but when, a moment after its close, the eye 
of Pere Jerome returned in that direction, his place 
was empty. 

As the little priest, his labor done and his vest- 
ments changed, was turning into the Rue Royale 
and leaving the cathedral out of sight, he just had 
time to understand that two women were pur- 
posely allowing him to overtake them, when the 
one nearer him spoke in the Creole patois, saying, 
with some timid haste : 


28 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


“Good-morning, Pere — Pere Jerome; Pere 
Jerome, we thank the good God for that sermon.” 

“ Then, so do I,” said the little man. They were 
the same two that he had noticed when he was 
preaching. The younger one bowed silently ; she 
was a beautiful figure, but the slight effort of P^re 
Jerome’s kind eyes to see through the veil was 
vain. He would presently have passed on, but 
the one who had spoken before said : 

“ I thought you lived in the Rue des Ursulines.” 

“Yes; I am going this way to see a sick per- 
son.” 

The woman looked up at him with an expression 
of mingled confidence and timidity. 

“ It must be a blessed thing to be so useful as to 
be needed by the good God,” she said. 

P^re Jerome smiled : 

“ God does not need me to look after his sick ; 
but he allows me to do it, just as you let your 
little boy in frocks carry in chips.” He might 
have added that he loved to do it, quite as much. 

It was plain the woman had somewhat to ask, 
and was trying to get courage to ask it. 

“ You have a little boy ? ” asked the priest. 

“ No, I have only my daughter ; ” she indicated 
the girl at her side. Then she began to say some- 
thing else, stopped, and with much nervousness 
asked : “ P^re Jerome, what was the name of that 
man? ” 

“ His name ? ” said the priest. “ You wish to 
know his name ? ” 


MADAME DELPHI NE 


29 


“ Yes, Monsieur ” (or Miche, as she spoke it) ; 
“it was such a beautiful story.” The speaker’s 
companion looked another way. 

“ His name,” said Father Jerome, — “ some say 
one name and some another. Some think it was 
Jean Lafitte, the famous ; you have heard of him ? 

And do you go to my church, Madame ? ” 

“No, Mich6; not in the past; but from this 
time, yes. My name ” — she choked a little, and 
yet it evidently gave her pleasure to offer this mark 
of confidence — “ is Madame Delphine — Delphine 
Car raze.” 




30 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


VI 

A Cry of Distress 

JEROME’S smile and exclama- 
as some days later he entered his 
»r in response to the announce- 
of a visitor, were indicative of 
hearty greeting rather than surprise. 

“ Madame Delphine ! ” 

Yet surprise could hardly have been altogether 
absent, for though another Sunday had not yet 
come around, the slim, smallish figure sitting in a 
corner, looking very much alone, and clad in dark 
attire, which seemed to have been washed a trifle 
too often, was Delphine Carraze on her second 
visit. And this, he was confident, was over and 
above an attendance in the confessional, where he 
was sure he had recognized her voice. 

She rose bashfully and gave her hand, then 
looked to the floor, and began a faltering speech, 
with a swallowing motion in the throat, smiled 
weakly and commenced again, speaking, as before, 
in a gentle, low note, frequently lifting up and 




MADAME DELPHI NE 


31 


casting down her eyes, while shadows of anxiety 
and smiles of apology chased each other rapidly 
across her face. She was trying to ask his advice. 

“ Sit down,” said he ; and when they had taken 
seats she resumed, with downcast eyes : 

“You know, — probably I should have said this 
in the confessional, but ” — 

“No matter, Madame Delphine; I understand; 
you did not want an oracle, perhaps ; you want a 
friend.” 

She lifted her eyes, shining with tears, and 
dropped them again. 

“I” — she ceased. “I have done a” — she 
dropped her head and shook it despondingly — “ a 
cruel thing.” The tears rolled from her eyes as 
she turned away her face. 

P^re Jerome remained silent, and presently she 
turned again, with the evident intention of speak- 
ing at length. 

“ It began nineteen years ago — by ” — her eyes, 
which she had lifted, fell lower than ever, her brow 
and neck were suffused with blushes, and she mur- 
mured — “ I fell in love.” 

She said no more, and by and by Pere Jerome 
replied : 

“ Well, Madame Delphine, to love is the right of 
every soul. I believe in love. If your love was 
pure and lawful I am sure your angel guardian 
smiled upon you ; and if it was not, I cannot say 
you have nothing to answer for, and yet I think 
God may have said : “ She is a quadroone ; all the 


32 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


rights of her womanhood trampled in the mire, sin 
made easy to her — almost compulsory, — charge 
it to account of whom it may concern.” 

“No, no! ” said Madame Delphine, looking up 
quickly, “ some of it might fall upon ” — Her eyes 
fell, and she commenced biting her lips and ner- 
vously pinching little folds in her skirt. “ He was 
good — as good as the law would let him be — bet- 
ter, indeed, for he left me property which really 
the strict law does not allow. He loved our little 
daughter very much. He wrote to his mother and 
sisters, owning all his error and asking them to 
take the child and bring her up. I sent her to 
them when he died, which was soon after, and did 
not see my child for sixteen years. But we wrote 
to each other all the time, and she loved me. And 
then — at last ” — Madame Delphine ceased speak- 
ing, but went on diligently with her agitated fin- 
gers, turning down foolish hems lengthwise of her 
lap. 

“At last your mother-heart conquered,” said . 
Pere Jerome. 

She nodded. 

“ The sisters married, the mother died ; I saw 
that even where she was she did not escape the 
reproach of her birth and blood, and when she 
asked me to let her come” — The speaker’s 
brimming eyes rose an instant. “ I know it was 
wicked, but — I said, come.” 

The tears dripped through her hands upon her 
dress. 


MADAME DELPHINE 


33 


“Was it she who was with you last Sunday? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And now you do not know what to do with 
her ? ” 

c^est fa oui ! — that is it.” 

“ Does she look like you, Madame Delphine ? ” 

“ Oh, thank God, no ! you would never believe 
she was my daughter ; she is white and beautiful ! ” 

“You thank God for that which is your main 
difficulty, Madame Delphine.” 

“Alas! yes.” 

Pere Jerome laid his palms tightly across his 
knees with his arms bowed out, and fixed his 
eyes upon the ground, pondering. 

“ I suppose she is a sweet, good daughter ? ” 
said he, glancing at Madame Delphine, without 
changing his attitude. 

Her answer was to raise her eyes rapturously. 

“Which gives us the dilemma in its fullest 
force,” said the priest, speaking as if to the floor. 
“ She has no more place than if she had dropped 
upon a strange planet.” He suddenly looked up 
with a brightness which almost as quickly passed 
away, and then he looked down again. His happy 
thought was the cloister; but he instantly said to 
himself: “They cannot have overlooked that 
choice, except intentionally — which they have a 
right to do.” He could do nothing but shake his 
head. 

“And suppose you should suddenly die,” he 
said; he wanted to get at once to the worst. 


34 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


The woman made a quick gesture, and buried 
her head in her handkerchief, with the stifled cry : 

“ Oh, Olive, my daughter ! ” 

“ Well, Madame Delphine,” said P^re Jerome, 
more buoyantly, “ one thing is sure : we must find 
a way out of this trouble.” 

“ Ah ! ” she exclaimed, looking heavenward, 
“ if it might be ! ” 

“ But it must be ! ” said the priest. 

“ But how shall it be ? ” asked the desponding 
woman. 

“ Ah ! ” said P^re Jerome, with a shrug, “ God 
knows.” 

“ Yes,” said the quadroone, with a quick sparkle 
in her gentle eye ; “ and I know, if God would tell 
anybody. He would tell you ! ” 

The priest smiled and rose. 

*‘Do you think so? Well, leave me to think 
of it. I will ask Him.” 

“ And He will tell you ! ” she replied. “ And 
He will bless you ! ” She rose and gave her hand. 
As she withdrew it she smiled. “ I had such a 
strange dream,” she said, backing toward the 
door. 

“ Yes ? ” 

“ Yes. I got my troubles all mixed up with 
your sermon. I dreamed I made that pirate the 
guardian of my daughter.” 

P^re Jerome smiled also, and shrugged. 

“To you, Madame Delphine, as you are placed, 
every white man in this country, on land or on 


MADAME DELPHINE 


35 


water, is a pirate, and of all pirates, I think that 
one is, without (^oubt, the best.” 

“Without doubt,” echoed Madame Delphine, 
wearily, still withdrawing backward. Pere Je- 
rome stepped forward and opened the door. 

The shadow of some one approaching it from 
without fell upon the threshold, and a man en- 
tered, dressed in dark blue cottonade, lifting from 
his head a fine Panama hat, and from a broad, 
smooth brow, fair where the hat had covered it, 
and dark below, gently stroking back his very soft, 
brown locks. Madame Delphine slightly started 
aside, while Pere Jerome reached silently, but 
eagerly, forward, grasped a larger hand than his 
own, and motioned its owner to a seat. Madame 
Delphine’s eyes ventured no higher than to dis- 
cover that the shoes of the visitor were of white 
duck. 

“Well,” Pere Jerome,” she said, in a hurried 
undertone, “ I am just going to say Hail Marys all 
the time till you find that out for me ! ” 

“ Well, I hope that will be soon, Madame Car- 
raze. Good-day, Madame Carraze.” 

And as she departed, the priest turned to the 
newcomer and extended both hands, saying, in the 
same familiar dialect in which he had been ad- 
dressing the quadroone: 

“ Well-a-day, old playmate ! After so many 
years ! ” 

They sat down side by side, like husband and 
wife, the priest playing with the other’s hand, and 


36 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


talked of times and seasons past, often mentioning 
Evariste and often Jean. 

Madame Delphine stopped short half-way home 
and returned to Pere Jerome’s. His entry door 
was wide open and the parlor door ajar. She 
passed through the one and with downcast eyes 
was standing at the other, her hand lifted to knock, 
when the door was drawn open and the white 
duck shoes passed out. She saw, besides, this 
time the blue cottonade suit. 

“ Yes,” the voice of Pere Jerome was saying, as 
his face appeared in the door — “ Ah ! Madame 
“ I lef ’ my parar*?/,” said Madame Delphine, in 
English. 

There was this quiet evidence of a defiant spirit 
hidden somewhere down under her general timid- 
ity, that, against a fierce conventional prohibition, 
she wore a bonnet instead of the turban of her 
caste, and carried a parasol. 

P^re Jerome turned and brought it. 

He made a motion in the direction in which the 
late visitor had disappeared. 

“ Madame Delphine, you saw dat man ? ” 

“ Not his face.” 

“You couldn’ billieve me iv I tell you w’at dat 
man impose to do ! ” 

“ Is dad so, Pere Jerome ? ” 

“ He’s goin’ to hopen a bank ! ” 

“ Ah ! ” said Madame Delphine, seeing she was 
expected to be astonished. 


MADAME DELPHINE 


37 


P^re Jerome evidently longed to tell something 
that was best kept secret; he repressed the im- 
pulse, but his heart had to say something. He 
threw forward one hand and looking pleasantly at 
Madame Delphine, with his lips dropped apart, 
clenched his extended hand and thrusting it toward 
the ground, said in a solemn undertone : 

“ He is God’s own banker, Madame Delphine.” 




38 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


VII 

Miche Vigfievielle 

ADAME DELPHINE sold one of the 
corner lots of her property. She had 
almost no revenue, and now and then 
a piece had to go. As a consequence 
of the sale, she had a few large bank-notes 
sewed up in her petticoat, and one day — maybe 
a fortnight after her tearful interview with P^re 
Jerome — she found it necessary to get one of 
these changed into small money. She was in 
the Rue Toulouse, looking from one side to the 
other for a bank which was not in that street at 
all, when she noticed a small sign hanging above 
a door, bearing the name “ Vignevielle. ” She 
looked in. P^re Jerome had told her (when she 
had gone to him to ask where she should apply for 
change) that if she could only wait a few days, 
there would be a new concern opened in Toulouse 
Street, — it really seemed as if Vignevielle was the 
name, if she could judge; it looked to be, and it 
was, a private banker’s, — “ U. L. Vignevielle’s,” 



MADAME DELPHINE 


39 


according to a larger inscription which met her 
eyes as she ventured in. Behind the counter, ex- 
changing some last words with a busy-mannered 
man outside, who, in withdrawing, seemed bent 
on running over Madame Delphine, stood the 
man in blue cottonade, whom she had met in P6re 
Jerome’s doorway. Now, for the first time, she 
saw his face, its strong, grave, human kindness 
shining softly on each and every bronzed feature. 
The recognition was mutual. He took pains to 
speak first, saying, in a re-assuring tone, and in 
the language he had last heard her use : 

“ ’Ow I kin serve you, Madame ? ” 

“If you pliz, to mague dad bill change, Miche.” 

She pulled from her pocket a wad of dark cotton 
handkerchief, from which she began to untie the 
imprisoned note. Madame Delphine had an un- 
commonly sweet voice, and it seemed so to strike 
Monsieur Vignevielle. He spoke to her once or 
twice more, as he waited on her, each time in 
English, as though he enjoyed the humble melody 
of its tone, and presently, as she turned to go, he 
said : 

“ Madame Carraze ! ” 

She started a little, but bethought herself in- 
stantly that he had heard her name in P^re Je- 
rome’s parlor. The good father might even have 
said a few words about her after her first depart- 
ure ; he had such an overflowing heart. “ Madame 
Carraze,” said Monsieur Vignevielle, “ doze kine 
of note wad you ^an' me juz now is bein’ contrefit. 


40 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


You muz tek kyah from doze kine of note. You 
see ” — He drew from his cash-drawer a note re- 
sembling the one he had just changed for her, and 
proceeded to point out certain tests of genuine- 
ness. The counterfeit, he said, was so and so. 

Bud,” she exclaimed, with much dismay, “dad'^ 
was de miinner of my bill ! Id muz be — led me 
see dad bill wad I give you, — if you pliz, Miche.” 

Monsieur Vignevielle turned to engage in con- 
versation with an employe and a new visitor, and 
gave no sign of hearing Madame Delphine’s voice. 
She asked a second time, with like result, lingered 
timidly, and as he turned to give his attention to a 
third visitor, reiterated ; 

“ Miche Vignevielle, I wizh you pliz led ” — 

“ Madame Carraze,” he said, turning so sud- 
denly as to make the frightened little woman start, 
but extending his palm with a show of frankness, 
and assuming a look of benignant patience, “ ’ow 
I kin fine doze note now, mongs’ all de rer ? Iv 
you pliz nod to mague me doze troub’.” 

The dimmest shadow of a smile seemed only to 
give his words a more kindly authoritative import, 
and as he turned away again with a manner sug- 
gestive of finality, Madame Delphine found no 
choice but to depart. But she went away loving 
the ground beneath the feet of Monsieur U. L. 
Vignevielle. 

“ Oh, P^re Jerome ! ” she exclaimed in the cor- 
rupt French of her caste, meeting the little father 
on the street a few days later, “ you told the truth 


MADAME DELPHINE 


41 


that day in your parlor. Mo conni li d c't heure. 
I know him now; he is just what you called 
him.” 

“ Why do you not make him your banker, also, 
Madame Delphine? ” 

“ I have done so this very day ! ” she replied, 
with more happiness in her eyes than Pere Jerome 
had ever before seen there. 

“ Madame Delphine,” he said, his own eyes 
sparkling, “ make him your daughter’s guardian ; 
for myself, being a priest, it would not be best ; 
but ask him; I believe he will not refuse you.” 

Madame Delphine’s face grew still brighter as 
he spoke. 

“ It was in my mind,” she said. 

Yet to the timorous Madame Delphine many 
trifles became, one after another, an impediment 
to the making of this proposal, and many weeks 
elapsed before further delay was positively without 
excuse. But at length, one day in May, 1822, in 
a small private office behind Monsieur Vigne- 
vielle’s banking-room, — he sitting beside a table, 
and she, more timid and demure than ever, having 
just taken a chair by the door, — she said, trying, 
with a little bashful laugh, to make the matter 
seem unimportant, and yet with some tremor of 
voice : 

“Mich6 Vignevielle, I bin maguing my will.” 
(Having commenced their acquaintance in Eng- 
lish, they spoke nothing else.) 

“ ’Tis a good idy,” responded the banker. 



42 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


“ I kin mague you de troub’ to kib dad will fo' 
me, Mich^ Vignevielle ? ” 

« Yez.” 

She looked up with grateful re-assurance; but 
her eyes dropped again as she said ; 

“ Michd Vignevielle ” — Here she choked, and 
began her peculiar motion of laying folds in the 
skirt of her dress, with trembling fingers. She 
lifted her eyes, and as they met the look of deep 
and placid kindness that was in his face, some 
courage returned, and she said: 

“Mich6.» 

“Wad you wand? ” asked he, gently. 

“ If it arrive to me to die ” — 

“ Yez ? ” 

Her words were scarcely audible : 

“ I wand you teg kyah my lill’ girl.” 

“ You ’ave one lill’ gal, Madame Carraze? ” 

She nodded with her face down. 

“ An’ you godd some mo’ chillen ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ I nevva know dad, Madame Carraze. She’s 
a lill’ small gal ? ” 

Mothers forget their daughters’ stature. Ma- 
dame Delphine said; 

“Yez.” 

For a few moments neither spoke, and then 
Monsieur Vignevielle said : 

“ I will do dad.” 

“ Lag she been you’ h-own ? ” asked the mother, 
suffering from her own boldness. 


MADAME DELPHINE 


43 


She’s a good lill’ chile, eh ? ” 

“ Mich6, she’s a lill’ hangel ! ” exclaimed Ma- 
dame Delphine, with a look of distress. 

“Yez; I teg kyah ’v ’er, lag my h-own. Imague 
you dad promise.” 

“ But ” — There was something still in the way, 
Madame Delphine seemed to think. 

The banker waited in silence. 

“I suppose you will want to see my lill’ 
girl?” 

He smiled; for she looked at him as if she 
would implore him to decline. 

“Oh, I tek you’ word fo’ hall dad, Madame 
Carraze. It mague no differend wad she loog lag ; 
I don’ wan’ see ’er.” 

Madame Delphine’s parting smile — she went 
very shortly — was gratitude beyond speech. 

Monsieur Vignevielle returned to the seat he 
had left, and resumed a newspaper, — the Louisi- 
ana Gazette in all probability, — which he had laid 
down upon Madame Delphine’s entrance. His 
eyes fell upon a paragraph which had previously 
escaped his notice. There they rested. Either 
he read it over and over unwearyingly, or he was 
lost in thought. Jean Thompson entered. 

“ Now,” said Mr. Thompson, in a suppressed 
tone, bending a little across the table, and laying 
one palm upon a package of papers which lay in 
the other, “ it is completed. You could retire from 
your business any day inside of six hours without 
loss to anybody.” (Both here and elsewhere, let 


44 


OLD CREOLE DA YS 


it be understood that where good English is given 
the words were spoken in good French.) 

Monsieur Vignevielle raised his eyes and ex- 
tended the newspaper to the attorney, who re- 
ceived it and read the paragraph. Its substance 
was that a certain vessel of the navy had returned 
from a cruise in the Gulf of Mexico and Straits of 
Florida, where she had done valuable service 
against the pirates — having, for instance, de- 
stroyed in one fortnight in January last twelve 
pirate vessels afloat, two on the stocks, and three 
establishments ashore. 

“ United States brig Porpoise^’' repeated Jean 
Thompson. . “ Do you know her ? ” 

“We are acquainted,” said Monsieur Vigne- 
vielle. 


MADAME DELPHI NE 


45 


VIII 

She 


QUIET footstep, a grave new pres- 
ence on financial sidewalks, a neat garb 
slightly out of date, a gently strong and 
kindly pensive face, a silent bow, a new 
sign in the Rue Toulouse, a lone figure with a 
cane, walking in meditation in the evening light 
under the willows of Canal Marigny, a long-dark- 
ened window re-lighted in the Rue Conti — these 
were all; a fall of dew would scarce have been 
more quiet than was the return of Ursin Lemaitre- 
Vignewelle to the precincts of his birth and early 
life. 

But we hardly give the event its right name. It 
was Capitaine Lemaitre who had disappeared ; it 
was Monsieur Vignevielle who had come back. 
The pleasures, the haunts, the companions, that 
had once held out their charms to the impetuous 
youth, offered no enticements to Madame Del- 
phine’s banker. There is this to be said even for 
the pride his grandfather had taught him, that it 



46 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


had always held him above low indulgences ; and 
though he had dallied with kings, queens, and 
knaves through all the mazes of Faro, Rondeau, 
and Craps, he had done it loftily ; but now he main- 
tained a peaceful estrangement from all. Evariste 
and Jean, themselves, found him only by seeking. 

“ It is the right way,” he said to Pere Jerome, 
the day we saw him there. “ Ursin Lemaitre is 
dead. I have buried him. He left a will. I am 
his executor.” 

“ He is crazy,” said his lawyer brother-in-law, 
impatiently. 

“ On the contr-y,” replied the little priest, “ ’e 
’as come ad hisse’f.” 

Evariste spoke. 

“ Look at his face, Jean. Men with that kind 
of face are the last to go crazy.” 

“ You have not proved that,” replied Jean, with 
an attorney’s obstinacy. “You should have heard' 
him talk the other day about that newspaper par- 
agraph. ‘I have taken Ursin Lemaitre’s head; 
I have it with me ; I claim the reward, but I de- 
sire to commute it to citizenship.’ He is crazy.” 

Of course Jean Thompson did not believe what 
he said ; but he said it, and, in his vexation, re- 
peated it, on the banquettes and at the clubs; and 
presently it took the shape of a sly rumor, that 
the returned rover was a trifle snarled in his top- 
hamper. 

This whisper was helped into circulation by 
many trivial eccentricities of manner, and by the 


MADAME DELPHINE 


47 


unaccountable oddness of some of his transactions 
in business. 

“My dear sir!” cried his astounded lawyer, 
one day, “ you are not running a charitable insti- 
tution ! ” 

“ How do you know ? ” said Monsieur Vigne- 
vielle. There the conversation ceased. 

“ Why do you not found hospitals and asylums 
at once,” asked the attorney, at another time, with 
a vexed laugh, “ and get the credit of it ? ” 

“ And make the end worse than the beginning,” 
said the banker, with a gentle smile, turning away 
to a desk of books. 

“ Bah ! ” muttered Jean Thompson. 

Monsieur Vignevielle betrayed one very bad 
symptom. Wherever he went he seemed look- 
ing for somebody. It may have been perceptible 
only to those who were sufficiently interested in 
him to study his movements ; but those who saw 
it once saw it always. He never passed an open 
door or gate but he glanced in ; and often, where 
it stood but slightly ajar, you might see him give 
it a gentle push with his hand or cane. It was 
very singular. 

He walked much alone after dark. The guichU 
nangoes (garroters, we might say), at those times 
the city’s particular terror by night, never crossed 
his path. He was one of those men for whom 
danger appears to stand aside. 

One beautiful summer night, when all nature 
seemed hushed in ecstasy, the last blush gone that 


48 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


told of the sun’s parting, Monsieur Vignevielle, 
in the course of one of those contemplative, un- 
companioned walks which it was his habit to take, 
came slowly along the more open portion of the 
Rue Royale, with a step which was soft without 
intention, occasionally touching the end of his 
stout cane gently to the ground and looking up- 
ward among his old acquaintances, the stars. 

It was one of those southern nights under whose 
spell all the sterner energies of the mind cloak 
themselves and lie down in bivouac, and the fancy 
and the imagination, that cannot sleep, slip their 
fetters and escape, beckoned away from behind 
every flowering bush and sweet-smelling tree, and 
every stretch of lonely, half-lighted walk, by the 
genius of poetry. The air stirred softly now and 
then, and was still again, as if the breezes lifted 
their expectant pinions and lowered them once 
more, awaiting the rising of the moon in a silence 
which fell upon the fields, the roads, the gardens, 
the walls, and the suburban and half-suburban 
streets, like a pause in worship. And anon she 
rose. 

Monsieur Vignevielle’s steps were bent toward 
the more central part of the town, and he was 
presently passing along a high, close, board-fence, 
on the right-hand side of the way, when, just within 
this enclosure, and almost overhead, in the dark 
boughs of a large orange-tree, a mocking-bird be- 
gan the first low flute-notes of his all-night song. 
It may have been only the nearness of the song- 


MADAME DELPHINE 


49 


ster that attracted the passer’s attention, but he 
paused and looked up. 

And then he remarked something more, — that 
the air where he had stopped was filled with the 
overpowering sweetness of the night-jasmine. He 
looked around ; it could only be inside the fence. 
There was a gate just there. Would he push it, 
as his wont was ? The grass was growing about 
it in a thick turf, as though the entrance had not 
been used for years. An iron staple clasped the 
cross-bar, and was driven deep into the gate-post. 
But now an eye that had been in the blacksmith- 
ing business — an eye which had later received 
high training as an eye for fastenings — fell upon 
that staple, and saw at a glance that the wood had 
shrunk from it, and it had sprung from its hold, 
though without falling out. The strange habit 
asserted itself ; he laid his large hand upon the 
cross-bar; the turf at the base yielded, and the 
tall gate was drawn partly open. 

At that moment, as at the moment whenever he 
drew or pushed a door or gate, or looked in at 
a window, he was thinking of one, the image of 
whose face and form had never left his inner vision 
since the day it had met him in his life’s path and 
turned him face about from the way of destruction. 

The bird ceased. The cause of the interruption, 
standing within the opening, saw before him, ob- 
scured by its own numerous shadows, a broad, 
ill-kept, many-flowered garden, among whose un- 
trimmed rose-trees and tangled vines, and often, 


5 ° 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


also, in its old walks of pounded shell, the coco- 
grass and crab-grass had spread riotously, and 
sturdy weeds stood up in bloom. He stepped in 
and drew the gate to after him. There, very near 
by, was the clump of jasmine, whose ravishing 
odor had tempted him. It stood just beyond a 
brightly moonlit path, which turned from him in a 
curve toward the residence, a little distance to the 
right, and escaped the view at a point where it 
seemed more than likely a door of the house might 
open upon it. While he still looked, there fell 
upon his ear, from around that curve, a light foot- 
step on the broken shells — one only, and then all 
was for a moment still again. Had he mistaken ? 
No. The same soft click was repeated nearer by, 
a pale glimpse of robes came through the tangle, 
and then, plainly to view, appeared an outline — a 
presence — a form — a spirit — a girl ! 

From throat to instep she was as white as Cyn- 
thia. Something above the medium height, slen- 
der, lithe, her abundant hair rolling in dark, rich 
waves back from her brows and down from her 
crown, and falling in two heavy plaits beyond her 
round, broadly girt waist and full to her knees, a 
few escaping locks eddying lightly on her graceful 
neck and her temples, — her arms, half hid in a 
snowy mist of sleeve, let down to guide her spot- 
less skirts free from the dewy touch of the grass, — 
straight down the path she came ! 

Will she stop ? Will she turn aside ? Will she 
espy the dark form in the deep shade of the 


MADAME DELPHINE> 


51 


orange, and, with one piercing scream, wheel and 
vanish? She draws near. She approaches the 
jasmine; she raises her arms, the sleeves fall- 
ing like a vapor down to the shoulders; rises 
upon tiptoe, and plucks a spray. O Memory! 
Can it be ? Can it be ? Is this his quest, or is it 
lunacy? The ground seems to Monsieur Vigne- 
vielle the unsteady sea, and he to stand once more 
on a deck. And she ? As she is now, if she but 
turn toward the orange, the whole glory of the 
moon will shine upon her face. His heart stands 
still ; he is waiting for her to do that. She reaches 
up again ; this time a bunch for her mother. That 
neck and throat I Now she fastens a spray in her 
hair. The mocking-bird cannot withhold; he 
breaks into song — she turns — she turns her 
face — it is she, it is she! Madame Delphine’s 
daughter is the girl he met on the ship. 


52 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


IX 

Olive 

was just passing seventeen — 
beautiful year when the heart of 
maiden still beats quickly with 
surprise of her new dominion, 
while with gentle dignity her brow accepts the 
holy coronation of womanhood. The forehead 
and temples beneath her loosely bound hair were 
fair without paleness, and meek without languor. 
She had the soft, lack-lustre beauty of the South ; 
no ruddiness of coral, no waxen white, no pink of 
shell ; no heavenly blue in the glance ; but a face 
that seemed, in all its other beauties, only a tender 
accompaniment for the large, brown, melting eyes, 
where the openness of child-nature mingled dream- 
ily with the sweet mysteries of maiden thought. 
We say no color of shell on face or throat; but 
this was no deficiency, that which took its place 
being the warm, transparent tint of sculptured 
ivory. 

This side doorway which led from Madame 



MADAME DELPHINE 


53 


Delphine’s house into her garden was over-arched 
partly by an old remnant of vine-colored lattice, 
and partly by a crape-myrtle, against whose small, 
polished trunk leaned a rustic seat. Here Madame 
Delphine and Olive loved to sit when the twilights 
were balmy or the moon was bright. 

“ Cherie^’’ said Madame Delphine, on one of 
those evenings, “why do you dream so much ? ” 

She spoke in the patois most natural to her, and 
which her daughter had easily learned. 

The girl turned her face to her mother, and 
smiled, then dropped her glance to the hands in 
her own lap, which were listlessly handling the 
end of a ribbon. The mother looked at her with 
fond solicitude. Her dress was white again ; this 
was but one night since that in which Monsieur 
Vignevielle had seen her at the bush of night-jas- 
mine. He had not been discovered, but had gone 
away, shutting the gate, and leaving it as he had 
found it. 

Her head was uncovered. Its plaited masses, 
quite black in the moonlight, hung down and 
coiled upon the bench by her side. Her chaste 
drapery was of that revived classic order which 
the world of fashion was again laying aside to re- 
assume the mediaeval bondage of the staylace ; for 
New Orleans was behind the fashionable world, 
and Madame Delphine and her daughter were be- 
hind New Orleans. A delicate scarf, pale blue, of 
lightly netted worsted, fell from either shoulder 
down beside her hands. The look that was bent 


54 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


upon her changed perforce to one of gentle admi- 
ration. She seemed the goddess of the garden. 

Olive glanced up. Madame Delphine was not 
prepared for the movement, and on that account 
repeated her question: 

“What are you thinking about? ” 

The dreamer took the hand that was laid upon 
hers between her own palms, bowed her head, 
and gave them a soft* kiss. 

The mother submitted. Wherefore, in the silence 
which followed, a daughter’s conscience felt the 
burden of having withheld an answer, and Olive 
presently said, as the pair sat looking up in the 
sky; 

“ I was thinking of Pere Jerome’s sermon.” 

Madame Delphine had feared so. Olive had 
lived on it ever since the day it was preached. 
The poor mother was almost ready to repent hav- 
ing ever afforded her the opportunity of hearing 
it. Meat and drink had become of secondary 
value to her daughter ; she fed upon the sermon. 

Olive felt her mother’s thought and knew that 
her mother knew her own ; but now that she had 
confessed, she would ask a question : 

“ Do you think, maman^ that P^re Jerome knows 
it was I who gave that missal ? ” 

“No,” said Madame Delphine, “ I am sure he 
does not.” 

Another question came more timidly : 

“ Do — do you think he knows him ? ” 

“Yes, I do. He said in his sermon he did.” 


MADAME DELPHINE 


55 


Both remained for a long time very still, watch- 
ing the moon gliding in and through among the 
small dark-and- white clouds. At last the daugh- 
ter spoke again. 

“ I wish I was P^re — I wish I was as good as 
Pere Jerome.” 

“ My child,” said Madame Delphine, her tone 
betraying a painful summoning of strength to say 
what she had lacked the courage to utter, — “ my 
child, I pray the good God you will not let your 
heart go after one whom you may never see in this * 
world ! ” 

The maiden turned her glance, and their eyes 
met. She cast her arms about her mother’s neck, 
laid her cheek upon it for a moment, and then, 
feeling the maternal tear, lifted her lips, and, kiss- 
ing her, said : 

“ I will not ! I will not ! ” 

But the voice was one, not of willing consent, 
but of desperate resolution. 

“ It would be useless, anyhow,” said the mother, 
laying her arm around her daughter’s waist. 

Olive repeated the kiss, prolonging it passion- 
ately. 

1 have nobody but you,” murmured the girl ; 

“ I am a poor quadroone ! ” 

She threw back her plaited hair for a third em- 
brace, when a sound in the shrubbery startled them. 

** Qin ci fa?^^ called Madame Delphine, in a 
frightened voice, as the two stood up, holding to 
each other. 


56 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


No answer. 

“ It was only the dropping of a twig,” she whis- 
pered, after a long holding of the breath. But they 
went into the house and barred it everywhere. 

It was no longer pleasant to sit up. They re- 
tired, and in course of time, but not soon, they fell 
asleep, holding each other very tight, and fearing, 
even in their dreams, to hear another twig fall. 



MADAME DELPHINE 


57 


X 


Birds 



ONSIEUR VIGNEVIELLE looked in 
at no more doors or windows ; but if 
the disappearance of this symptom was 
a favorable sign, others came to notice 
which were especially bad, — for instance, wake- 
fulness. At well-nigh any hour of the night, the 
city guard, which itself dared not patrol singly, 
would meet him on his slow, unmolested, sky- 
gazing walk. 

“ Seems to enjoy it,” said Jean Thompson; “ the 
worst sort of evidence. If he showed distress of 
mind, it would not be so bad ; but his calmness, 
— ugly feature.” 

The attorney had held his ground so long that 
he began really to believe it was tenable. 

By day, it is true. Monsieur Vignevielle was at 
his post in his quiet “bank.” Yet here, day by 
day, he was the source of more and more vivid 
astonishment to those who held preconceived no- 
tions of a banker’s calling. As a banker, at least, 



58 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


he was certainly out of balance ; while as a prom* 
enader, it seemed to those who watched him that 
his ruling idea had now veered about, and that of 
late he was ever on the quiet alert, not to find, but 
to evade, somebody. 

“ Olive, my child,” whispered Madame Delphine 
one morning, as the pair were kneeling side by 
side on the tiled floor of the church, “ yonder is 
Miche Vignevielle ! 'If you will only look at once 
— he is just passing a little in — Ah, much too 
slow again ; he stepped out by the side door.” 

The mother thought it a strange providence 
that Monsieur Vignevielle should always be dis- 
appearing whenever Olive was with her. 

One early dawn, Madame Delphine, with a small 
empty basket on her arm, stepped out upon the 
banquette in front of her house, shut and fastened 
the door very softly, and stole out in the direc- 
tion whence you could faintly catch, in the stillness 
of the daybreak, the songs of the Gascon butchers 
and the pounding of their meat-axes on the stalls 
of the distant market-house. She was going to 
see if she could find some birds for Olive, — the 
child’s appetite was so poor ; and, as she was out, 
she would drop an early prayer at the cathedral. 
Faith and works. 

“ One must venture something, sometimes, in 
the cause of religion,” thought she, as she started 
timorously on her way. But she had not gone 
a dozen steps before she repented her temerity. 
There was some one behind her. 


MADAME DELPHINE 


59 


There should not be any thing terrible in afoot- 
step merely because it is masculine; but Madame 
Delphine’s mind was not prepared to consider 
that. A terrible secret was haunting her. Yester- 
day morning she had found a shoe-track in the 
garden. She had not disclosed the discovery to 
Olive, but she had hardly closed her eyes the 
whole night. 

The step behind her now might be the fall of 
that very shoe. She quickened her pace, but did 
not leave the sound behind. She hurried forward 
almost at a run ; yet it was still there — no farther, 
no nearer. Two frights were upon her at once — 
one for herself, another for Olive, left alone in the 
house ; but she had but the .one prayer — “ God 
protect my child ! ” After a fearful time she 
reached a place of safety, the cathedral. There, 
panting, she knelt long enough to know the pur- 
suit was, at least, suspended, and then arose, hop- 
ing and praying all the saints that she might find 
the way clear for her return in all haste to 
Olive. 

She approached a different door from that by 
which she had entered, her eyes in all directions 
and her heart in her throat. 

“ Madame Carraze.” 

She started wildly and almost screamed, though 
the voice was soft and mild. Monsieur Vignevielle 
came slowly forward from the shade of the wall. 
They met beside a bench, upon which she dropped 
her basket. 


6o 


OLD CREOLE DA VS 


“ Ah, Mich6 Vignevielle, I thang de good God 
to mid you ! ” 

“Is dad so, Madame Carraze? Fo’ w’y dad 
is? ” 

“ A man was chase me all dad way since my 
’ouse ! ” 

“ Yes, Madame, I sawed him.” 

“ You sawed ’im ? Oo it was ? ” 

“ ’Twas only one man wad is a foolizh. De 
people say he’s crezzie. Mais, he don’ goin’ to 
meg you no ’arm.” 

“ But I was scare’ fo’ my lill’ girl.” 

“ Noboddie don’ goin’ trouble you’ lill’ gal, 
Madame Carraze.” 

Madame Delphine looked up into the speaker’s 
strangely kind and patient eyes, and drew sweet 
reassurance from them. 

“Madame,” said Monsieur Vignevielle, “wad 
pud you hout so hearly dis morning?” 

She told him her errand. She asked if he 
thought she would find any thing. 

“Yez,”he said, “it was possible — a few lill’ 
becassines-de-mer, ou somezin’ ligue. But fo’ w’y 
you lill’ gal lose doze hapetide ? ” 

“ Ah, Mich6,” — Madame Delphine might have 
tried a thousand times again without ever succeed- 
ing half so well in lifting the curtain upon the 
whole, sweet, tender, old, old-fashioned truth, — 
“ Ah, Mich^, she wone tell me ! ” 

“ Bud, anny’ow, Madame, wad you thing ? ” 

“ Mich6,” she replied, looking up again with a 


MADAME DELPHINE 


6i 


tear standing in either eye, and then looking down 
once more as she began to speak, “I thing — I 
thing she’s lonesome.” 

“ You thing ? ” 

She nodded. 

Ah ! Madame Carraze,” he said, partly extend- 
ing his hand, “ you see ? ’Tis impossible to mague 
you’ owze shud so tighd to priv-en dad. Madame, 
I med one mizteg.” 

“ Ah, non, Michd ! ” 

“ Yez. There har nod one poss’bil’ty fo’ me to 
be dad guardian of you’ daughteh ! ” 

Madame Delphine started with surprise and 
alarm. 

“ There is ondly one wad can be,” he continued. 

“ But oo, Mich^ ? ” 

« God.” 

“ Ah, Miche Vignevielle ” — She looked at him 
appealingly. 

“I don’ goin’ to dizzerd you, Madame Car- 
raze,” he said. 

She lifted her eyes. They filled. She shook 
her head, a tear fell, she bit her lip, smiled, and 
suddenly dropped her face into both hands, sat 
down upon the bench and wept until she shook. 

“You dunno wad I mean, Madame Carraze ? ” 

She did not know. 

“ I mean dad guardian of you’ daughteh godd 
to fine ’er now one ’uzban’; an’ noboddie are 
hable to do dad egceb de good God ’imsev. But, 
Madame, I tell you wad I do.” 


63 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


She rose up. He continued ; 

Go h-open you’ owze ; I fin’ you’ daughteh 
dad uzban’.” 

Madame Delphine was a helpless, timid thing ; 
but her eyes showed she was about to resent this 
offer. Monsieur Vignevielle put forth his hand — 
it touched her shoulder — and said, kindly still, 
and without eagerness ; 

“ One w’ite man, Madame : “ ’tis prattycabble. 
One w’ite jantleman, Madame, You can truz me. 
I goin’ fedge ’im. H-ondly you go h-open you’ 
owze.” 

Madame Delphine looked down, twining her 
handkerchief among her fingers. 

He repeated his proposition. 

You will come firz by you’se’f? ” she asked. 

Iv you wand.” 

She lifted up once more her eye of faith. That 
was her answer. 

Come,” he said, gently. “ I wan’ sen’ some 
bird ad you’ lill’ gal.” 

And they went away, Madame Delphine’s spirit 
grown so exaltedly bold that she said as they went, 
though a violent blush followed her words : 

“ Mich^ Vignevielle, I thing P^re Jerome mighd 
be ab’e to tell you someboddie.” 


MADAME DELPHINE 


63 


XI 

Face to Face 

ADAME DELPHINE found her 
house neither burned nor rifled. 

“ Ah ! ma piti sans popa / Ah ! my 
little fatherless one ! ” Her faded bon- 
net fell back between her shoulders, hanging on 
by the strings, and her dropped basket, with its 
“few lilP becassines-de-mer^^ dangling from the 
handle, rolled out its okra and soup-joint upon the 
floor. “ Ma piti / kiss ! — kiss ! — kiss ! ” 

“ But is it good news you have, or bad ? ” cried 
the girl, a fourth or fifth time. 

Diett sail, ma ch'e ; 1710 pas conne!''^ — God 
knows, my darling; I cannot tell! 

The mother dropped into a chair, covered her 
face with her apron, and burst into tears, then 
looked up with an effort to smile, and wept 
afresh. 

“ What have you been doing ? ” asked the 
daughter, in a long-drawn, fondling tone. She 



64 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


leaned forward and unfastened her mother’s bon- 
net-strings. Why do you cry ? ” 

“ For nothing at all, my darling ; for nothing — 
I am such a fool.” 

The girl’s eyes filled. The mother looked up 
into her face and said : 

“No, it is nothing, nothing, only that” — turn- 
ing her head from side to side with a slow, emo- 
tional emphasis, “ Miche Vignevielle is the best 
— best man on the good Lord’s earth ! ” 

Olive drew a chair close to her mother, sat down 
and took the little yellow hands into her own white 
lap, and looked tenderly into her eyes. Madame 
Delphine felt herself yielding ; she must make a 
show of telling something ; 

“ He sent you those birds ! ” 

The girl drew her face back a little. The little 
woman turned away, trying in vain to hide her tear- 
ful smile, and they laughed together, Olive ming- 
ling a daughter’s fond kiss with her laughter. 

“ There is something else,” she said, “ and you 
shall tell me.” 

“Yes,” replied Madame Delphine, “only let 
me get composed.” 

But she did not get so. Later in the morning 
she came to Olive with the timid yet startling 
proposal that they would do what they could to 
brighten up the long-neglected front room. Olive 
was mystified and troubled, but consented, and 
thereupon the mother’s spirits rose. 

The work began, and presently ensued all the 


MADAME DELPHINE 


65 


thumping, the trundling, the lifting and letting 
down, the raising and swallowing of dust, and the 
smells of turpentine, brass, pumice and woollen 
rags that go to characterize a housekeeper’s 
emeute ; and still, as the work progressed, Ma- 
dame Delphine’s heart grew light, and her little 
black eyes sparkled. 

“We like a clean parlor, my daughter, even 
though no one is ever coming to see us, eh ? ” she 
said, as entering the apartment she at last sat 
down, late in the afternoon. She had put on her 
best attire. 

Olive was not there to reply. The mother called 
but got no answer. She rose with an uneasy 
heart, and met her a few steps beyond the door 
that opened into the garden, in a path which came 
up from an old latticed bower. Olive was ap- 
proaching slowly, her face pale and wild. There 
was an agony of hostile dismay in the look, and 
the trembling and appealing tone with which, 
taking the frightened mother’s cheeks between 
her palms, she said: 

Ak/ ma merei qui vini ^ci ce soir?'' — Who 
is coming here this evening? 

“ Why, my dear child, I was just saying, we like 
a clean ” — 

But the daughter was desperate ; 

“ Oh, tell me, my mother, who is coming? ” 

“ My darling, it is our blessed friend, Mich6 
Vignevielle ! ” 

“ To see me ? ” cried the girl. 


66 


OLD CREOLE DA VS 


“Yes.” 

“ Oh, my mother, what have you done ? ” 

“Why, Olive, my child,” exclaimed the little 
mother, bursting into tears, “ do you forget it is 
Miche Vignevielle who has promised to protect 
you when I die ? ” 

The daughter had turned away, and entered the 
door ; but she faced around again, and extending 
her arms toward her mother, cried ; 

“ How can — he is a white man — I am a poor ” — 

“ Ah ! cheruy'* replied Madame Delphine, seiz- 
ing the outstretched hands, “ it is there — it is 
there that he shows himself the best man alive ! 
He sees that difficulty ; he proposes to meet it ; 
he says he will find you a suitor ! ” 

Olive freed her hands violently, motioned her 
mother back, and stood proudly drawn up, flash- 
ing an indignation too great for speech ; but the 
next moment she had uttered a cry, and was sob- 
bing on the floor. 

The mother knelt beside her and threw an arm 
about her shoulders. 

“ Oh, my sweet daughter, you must not cry ! I 
did not want to tell you at all ! I did not want to 
tell you! It isn’t fair for you to cry so hard. 
Mich6 Vignevielle says you shall have the one you 
wish, or none at all, Olive, or none at all.” 

“ None at all ! none at all ! None, none, none ! ” 

“ No, no, Olive,” said the mother, “ none at all. 
He brings none with him to-night, and shall bring 
none with him hereafter.” 


MADAME DELPHINE 


67 


Olive rose suddenly, silently declined her moth- 
er’s aid, and went alone to their chamber in the 
half-story. 

Madame Delphine wandered drearily from door 
to window, from window to door, and presently 
into the newly-furnished front room which now 
seemed dismal beyond degree. There was a great 
Argand lamp in one corner. How she had la- 
bored that day to prepare it for evening illumina- 
tion ! A little beyond it, on the wall, hung a cru- 
cifix. She knelt under it, with her eyes fixed upon 
it, and thus silently remained until its outline was 
indistinguishable in the deepening shadows of 
evening. 

She arose. A few minutes later, as she was 
trying to light the lamp, an approaching step on 
the sidewalk seemed to pause. Her heart stood 
still. She softly laid the phosphorus-box out of 
her hands. A shoe grated softly on the stone 
step, and Madame Delphine, her heart beating in 
great thuds, without waiting for a knock, opened 
the door, bowed low, and exclaimed in a soft per- 
turbed voice : 

“ Miche Vignevielle ! ” 

He entered, hat ih hand, and with that almost 
noiseless tread which we have noticed. She gave 
him a chair and closed the door ; then hastened, 
with words of apology, back to her task of light- 
ing the lamp. But her hands paused in their work 
again, — Olive’s step was on the stairs; then it 


68 


OLD CREOLE DA FS 


came off the stairs ; then it was in the next room, 
and then there was the whisper of soft robes, a 
breath of gentle perfume, and a snowy figure in 
the door. She was dressed for the evening. 

“ Maman? ” 

Madame Delphine was struggling desperately 
with the lamp, and at that moment it responded 
with a tiny bead of light. 

“ I am here, my daughter.” 

She hastened to the door, and Olive, all unaware 
of a third presence, lifted her white arms, laid 
them about her mother’s neck, and, ignoring her 
effort to speak, wrested a fervent kiss from her 
lips. The crystal of the lamp sent out a faint 
gleam ; it grew ; it spread on every side ; the ceil- 
ing, the walls lighted up ; the crucifix, the furni- 
ture of the room came back into shape. 

“ Maman ! ” cried Olive, with a tremor of con- 
sternation. 

“ It is Mich^ Vignevielle, my daughter ” — 

The gloom melted swiftly away before the eyes 
of the startled maiden, a dark form stood out 
against the farther wall, and the light, expanding 
to the full, shone clearly upon the unmoving figure 
and quiet face of Capitaine Lemaitre. 


MADAME DELPHINE 


69 


XII 

The Mother Bird 

NE afternoon, some three weeks after 
Capitaine Lemaitre had called on Ma- 
dame Delphine, the priest started to 
make a pastoral call, and had hardly 
left the gate of his cottage, when a person, over- 
taking him, plucked his gown : 

“Pere Jerome ” — 

He turned. 

The face that met his was so changed with ex- 
citement and distress that for an instant he did 
not recognize it. 

“Why, Madame Delphine” — 

“ Oh, Pere Jerome ! I wan’ see you so bad, so 
bad ! Mo ouU dit quif'ose ^ — I godd some’ to tell 
you.” 

The two languages might be more successful 
than one, she seemed to think. 

“ We had better go back to my parlor,” said the 
priest, in their native tongue. 

They returned. 



70 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


Madame Delpliine’s very step was altered, — 
nervous and inelastic. She swung one arm as 
she walked, and brandished a turkey-tail fan. 

“ I was glad, yass, to kedge you,” she said, as 
they mounted the front, outdoor stair ; following 
her speech with a slight, unmusical laugh, and 
fanning herself with unconscious fury. 

“7^/ chaud,^^ she remarked again, taking the 
chair he offered and continuing to ply the fan. 

P^re Jerome laid his hat upon a chest of draw- 
ers, sat down opposite her, and said, as he wiped 
his kindly face : 

“Well, Madame Carraze? ” 

Gentle as the tone was, she started, ceased fan- 
ning, lowered the fan to her knee, and commenced 
smoothing its feathers. 

“ Pere Jerome” — She gnawed her lip and 
shook her head. 

“ Well ? ” 

She burst into tears. 

The priest rose and loosed the curtain of one of 
the windows. He did it slowly — as slowly as he 
could, and, as he came back, she lifted her face 
with sudden energy, and exclaimed: 

“Oh, Pere Jerome, de law is brogue! de law 
is brogue ! I brogue it ! ’Twas me ! ’Twas 
me!” 

The te >a:s gushed out again, but she shut her 
lips very tight, and dumbly turned away her face. 
Pere Jerome waited a little before replying ; then 
he said, very gently : 


MADAME DELPHI NE 


71 


“ I suppose dad muss ’ave been by accyden’, 
Madame Delphine ? ” 

The little father felt a wish — one which he 
often had when weeping women were before him 
— that he were an angel instead of a man, long 
enough to press the tearful cheek upon his breast, 
and assure the weeper God would not let the law- 
yers and judges hurt her. He allowed a few mo- 
ments more to pass, and then asked : 

“ N'est-ce pasy Madame Delphine ? Daz ze way, 
ain’t it ? ” 

“No, Pere Jerome, no. My daughter — oh, 
Pere Jerome, I bethroath my lill’ girl — to a w’ite 
man ! ” And immediately Madame Delphine 
commenced savagely drawing a thread in the fab- 
ric of her skirt with one trembling hand, while she 
drove the fan with the other. “Dey goin’ git 
marry.” 

On the priest’s face came a look of pained sur- 
prise. He slowly said : 

“ Is dad possib’, Madame Delphine ? ” 

“ Yass,” she replied, at first without lifting her 
eyes ; and then again, “ Yass,” looking full upon 
him through her tears, “yass, ’tis tru’.’^ 

He rose and walked once across the room, re- 
turned, and said, in the Creole dialect : 

“ Is he a good man — without doubt? ” 

“ De bez in God’s world ! ” replied Madame 
Delphine, with a rapturous smile. 

“ My poor, dear friend,” said the priest, “ I am 
afraid you are being deceived by somebody.” 


72 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


There was the pride of an unswerving faith in 
the triumphant tone and smile with which she re- 
plied, raising and slowly shaking her head : 

“ Ah-h, no-o-o, Miche ! Ah-h, no, no ! Not 
by Ursin Lemaitre-Vignevielle ! ” 

Pere Jerome was confounded. He turned again, 
and, with his hands at his back and his eyes cast 
down, slowly paced the floor. 

“ He is a good man,” he said, by and by, as if he 
thought aloud. At length he halted before the 
woman. 

“ Madame Delphine ” — 

The distressed glance with which she had been 
following his steps was lifted to his eyes. 

“ Suppose dad should be true w’at doze peop’ 
say ’bout Ursin.” 

** Quid fa? What is that?” asked the quad- 
roone, stopping her fan. 

“ Some peop’ say Ursin is crezzie.” 

Ah, P^re Jerome! ” She leaped to her feet 
as if he had smitten her, and putting his words 
away with an outstretched arm and wide-open 
palm, suddenly lifted hands and eyes to heaven, 
and cried : “ I wizh to God — / wizh to God — de 
whole work was crezzie dad same way! ” She 
sank, trembling, into her chair. “ Oh, no, no,” 
she continued, shaking her head, ’tis not Miche 
Vignevielle w’at’s crezzie.” Her eyes lighted with 
sudden fierceness. “ ’Tis dad law ! Dad law is 
crezzie ! Dad law is a fool ! ” 

A priest of less heart-wisdom might have re- 


MADAME DELPHINE 


73 


plied that the law is — the law; but P^re Jerome 
saw that Madame Delphine was expecting this 
very response. Wherefore he said, with gentle- 
ness : 

« Madame Delphine, a priest is not a bailiff, but 
a physician. How can I help you ? ” 

A grateful light shone a moment in her eyes, 
yet there remained a piteous hostility in the tone 
in which she demanded : 

“ Mais, pou^quoi yi fe cette mkhanique la ? ” — 
What business had they to make that contraption ? 

His answer was a shrug with his palms ex- 
tended and a short, disclamatory “Ah.” He 
started to resume his walk, but turned to her again 
and said : 

“ Why did they make that law ? Well, they 
made it to keep the two races separate.” 

Madame Delphine startled the speaker with a 
loud, harsh, angry laugh. Fire came from her 
eyes and her lip curled with scorn. 

“Then they made a lie, P^re Jerome! Sepa- 
rate! N-o-o ! They do not want to keep us sep- 
arated ; no, no ! But they do want to keep us de- 
spised ! ” She laid Ijer hand on her heart, and 
frowned upward with physical pain. “ But, very 
well ! from which race do they want to keep my 
daughter separate ? She is seven parts white ! 
The law did not stop her from being that; and 
now, when she wants to be a white man’s good 
and honest wife, shall that law stop her? Oh, 
no! ” She rose up. “ No; I will tell you what 


74 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


that law is made for. It is made to — punish — my 
— child — for — not — choosing — her — father ! 
Pere Jerome — my God, what a law!” She 
dropped back into her seat. The tears came in a 
flood, which she made no attempt to restrain. 

*‘No,” she began again — and here she broke 
into English — “fo’ me I don’ kyare; but, P^re 
Jerome, — ’tis fo’ dat I came Jo tell you, — dey shall 
w^7/punizh my daughter! ” She was on her feet 
again, smiting her heaving bosom with the fan. 
“ She shall marrie oo she want ! ” 

Pere Jerome had heard her out, not interrupt- 
ing by so much as a motion of the hand. Now 
his decision was made, and he touched her softly 
with the ends of his fingers. 

“ Madame Delphine, I want you to go at ’ome. 
Go at ’ome.” 

“ Wad you goin’ mague ? ” she asked. 

“Nottin’. But go at ’ome. Kip quite; don’ 
put you’s’ef sig. I goin’ see Ursin. We trah to 
figs dat law fo’ you.” 

“You kin figs dad! ” she cried, with a gleam 
of joy. 

“We goin’ to try, Madame Delphine. Adieu ! ” 

He offered his hand. She seized and kissed it 
thrice, covering it with tears, at the same time 
lifting up her eyes to his and murmuring: 

“ De bez man God evva mague ! ” 

At the door she turned to offer a more conven- 
tional good-by; but he was following her out, 
bareheaded. At the gate they paused an instant, 


MADAME DELPHINE 


75 


and then parted with a simple adieu, she going 
home and he returning for his hat, and starting 
again upon his interrupted business. 

Before he came back to his own house, he 
stopped at the lodgings of Monsieur Vignevielle, 
but did not find him in. 

“Indeed,” the servant at the door said, “he 
said he might not return for some days or weeks.” 

So Pere Jerome, much wondering, made a sec- 
ond detour toward the residence of one of Mon- 
sieur Vignevielle’s employes. 

“ Yes,” said the clerk, “ his instructions are to 
hold the business, as far as practicable, in suspense, 
during his absence. Every thing is in another 
name.” And then he whispered: 

“ Officers of the Government looking for him. 
Information got from some of the prisoners taken 
months ago by the United States brig Porpoise, 
But” — a still softer whisper — “have no fear; they 
will never find him : Jean Thompson and Evariste 
Varrillat have hid him away too well for that.” 




76 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


XIII 

Tribulation 

HE Saturday following was a very beau- 
tiful day. In the morning a light fall 
of rain had passed across the town, and 
all the afternoon you could see signs, 
here and there upon the horizon, of other showers. 
The ground was dry again, while the breeze was 
cool and sweet, smelling of wet foliage and bring- 
ing sunshine and shade in frequent and very pleas- 
ing alternation. 

There was a walk in P^re Jerome’s little gar- 
den, of which we have not spoken, off on the right 
side of the cottage, with his chamber window at 
one end, a few old and twisted, but blossom-laden, 
crape-myrtles on either hand, now and then a rose 
of some unpretending variety and some bunches 
of rue, and at the other end a shrine, in whose 
blue niche stood a small figure of Mary, with folded 
hands and uplifted eyes. No other window looked 
down upon the spot, and its seclusion was often a 
great comfort to P^re Jerome. 



MADAME DELPHINE 


77 


Up and down this path, but a few steps in its 
entire length, the priest was walking, taking the 
air for a few moments after a prolonged sitting in 
the confessional. Penitents had been numerous 
this afternoon. He was thinking of Ursin. The 
officers of the Government had not found him, 
nor had Pere Jerome seen him; yet he believed 
they had, in a certain indirect way, devised a sim- 
ple project by which they could at any time “figs 
dad law,” providing only that these Government 
officials would give over their search ; for, though 
he had not seen the fugitive, Madame Delphine 
had seen him, and had been the vehicle of com- 
munication between them. There was an orange- 
tree, where a mocking-bird was wont to sing and 
a girl in white to walk, that the detectives wot not 
of. The law was to be “ figs ” by the departure of 
the three frequenters of the jasmine-scented gar- 
den in one ship to France, where the law offered 
no obstacles. 

It seemed moderately certain to those in search 
of Monsieur Vignevielle (and it was true) that 
Jean and Evariste were his harborers ; but for all 
that the hunt, even for clews, was vain. The little 
banking establishment had not been disturbed. 
Jean Thompson had told the searchers certain 
facts about it, and about its gentle proprietor as 
well, that persuaded them to make no move 
against the concern, if the same relations did not 
even induce a relaxation of their efforts for his 
personal discovery. 


78 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


P^re Jerome was walking to and fro, with his 
hands behind him, pondering these matters. He 
had paused a moment at the end of the walk far- 
thest from his window, and was looking around 
upon the sky, when, turning, he beheld a closely 
veiled female figure standing at the other end, and 
knew instantly that it was Olive. 

She came forward quickly and with evident 
eagerness. 

“I came to confession,” she said, breathing hur- 
riedly, the excitement in her eyes shining through 
her veil, “but I find I am too late.” 

“ There is no too late or too early for that ; I 
am always ready,” said the priest. “ But how is 
your mother ? ” 

“ Ah ! ”— 

Her voice failed. 

“ More trouble ? ” 

“Ah, sir, I have made trouble. Oh, Pere Je- 
rome, I am bringing so much trouble upon my 
poor mother ! ” 

Pere Jerome moved slowly toward the house, 
with his eyes cast down, the veiled girl at his side. 

“It is not your fault,” he presently said. And 
after another pause: “I thought it was all ar- 
ranged.” 

He looked up and could see, even through the 
veil, her crimson blush. 

“ Oh, no,” she replied, in a low, despairing 
voice, dropping her face. 

“What is the difficulty?” asked the priest. 


MADAME DELPHINE 


79 


Stopping in the angle of the path, where it turned 
toward the front of the house. 

She averted her face, and began picking the 
thin scales of bark from a crape-myrtle. 

“ Madame Thompson and her husband were at 
our house this morning. He had told Monsieur 
Thompson all about it. They were very kind to 
me at first, but they tried” — She was weep- 
ing. 

What did they try to do ? ” asked the priest. 

“ They tried to make me believe he is insane.” 

She succeeded in passing her handkerchief up 
under her veil. 

“ And I suppose then your poor mother grew 
angry, eh ?” 

“ Yes ; and they became much more so, and said 
if we did not write, or send a writing, to him^ 
within twenty-four hours, breaking the ” — 
Engagement,” said Pere Jerome. 

“ They would give him up to the Government. 
Oh, Pere Jerome, what shall I do? It is killing 
my mother ! ” 

She bowed her head and sobbed. 

“ Where is your mother now ? ” 

“ She has gone to see Monsieur Jean Thompson. 
She says she has a plan that will match them all. 
I do not know what it is. I begged her not to go ; 
but oh, sir, she is crazy, — and I am no better.” 

“ My poor child,” said P^re Jerome, “what you 
seem to want is not absolution, but relief from 
persecution.” 


/ 



8o 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


Oh, father, I have committed mortal sin, — I 
am guilty of pride and anger.” 

“ Nevertheless,” said the priest, starting toward 
his front gate, “ we will put off your confession. 
Let it go until to-morrow morning ; you will find 
me in my box just before mass; I will hear you 
then. My child, I know that in your heart, now, 
you begrudge the time it would take ; and that is 
right. There are moments when we are not in 
place even on penitential knees. It is so with you 
now. We must find your mother. Go you at 
once to your house ; if she is there, comfort her 
as best you can, and keep her m, if possible^ until 
I come. If she is not there, stay; leave me to 
find her ; one of you, at least, must be where I 
can get word to you promptly. God comfort and 
uphold you. I hope you may find her at home ; 
tell her, for me, not to fear,” — he lifted the gate- 
latch, — “ that she and her daughter are of more 
value than many sparrows ; that God’s priest 
sends her that word from Him. Tell her to fix 
her trust in the great Husband of the Church, and 
she shall yet see her child receiving the grace- 
giving sacrament of matrimony. Go ; I shall, in 
a few minutes, be on my way to Jean Thompson’s, 
and shall find her, either there or wherever she is. 
Go ; they shall not oppress you. Adieu ! ” 

A moment or two later he was in the street 
himself. 


MADAME DELPHI NE 


8i 


XIV 

By an Oath 

ERE JEROME, pausing on a street- 
corner in the last hour of sunlight, had 
wiped his brow and taken his cane 
down from under his arm to start 
again, when somebody, coming noiselessly from 
he knew not where, asked, so suddenly as to star- 
tle him : 

Miche^ commin yipellela rie id? — how do they 
call this street here ? ” 

It was by the bonnet and dress, disordered 
though they were, rather than by the haggard face 
which looked distractedly around, that he recog- 
nized the woman to whom he replied in her own 
patois : 

“ It is the Rue Burgundy. Where are you 
going, Madame Delphine ? ” 

She almost leaped from the ground. 

“Oh, Pere Jerome! 7710 pas co7tnS, — I dunno. 
You know w’ere’s dad ’ouse of Miche Jean Tom- 
kin ? Mo courri \i, tuo courri la, — tuo pas capabe 




82 


OLD CREOLE DA FS 


li trouve. I go (run) here — there — I cannot 
find it,” she gesticulated. 

“ I am going there myself,” said he ; “ but why 
do you want to see Jean Thompson, Madame Del- 
phine ? ” 

“ I ^blige' to see ’im ! ” she replied, jerking her- 
self half around away, one foot planted forward 
with an air of excited pre-occupation ; “ I godd 
some’ to tell ’im wad I ‘‘bligi to tell ’im ! ” 

“ Madame Delphine ” — 

“ Oh ! Pere Jerome, fo’ de love of de good God, 
show me dad way to de ’ouse of Jean Tomkin ! ” 

Her distressed smile implored pardon for her 
rudeness. 

“ What are you going to tell him? ” asked the 
priest. 

“ Oh, Pere Jerome,” — in the Creole patois again, 
— “ I am going to put an end to all this trouble — 
only I pray you do not ask me about it now ; every 
minute is precious ! ” 

He could not withstand her look of entreaty. 

“ Come,” he said, and they .went. 

Jean Thompson and Doctor Varrillat lived op- 
posite each other on the Bayou road, a little way 
beyond the town limits as then prescribed. Each 
had his large, white-columned, four-sided house 
among the magnolias, — his huge live-oak over- 
shadowing either corner of the darkly shaded 
garden, his broad, brick walk leading down to the 
tall, brick -pillared gate, his square of bright, red 


MADAME DELPHINE 


83 


pavement on the turf-covered sidewalk, and his 
railed platform spanning the draining-ditch, with 
a pair of green benches, one on each edge, facing 
each other crosswise of the gutter. There, any 
sunset hour, you were sure to find the householder 
sitting beside his cool-robed matron, two or three 
slave nurses in white turbans standing at hand, 
and an excited throng of fair children, nearly all 
of a size. 

Sometimes, at a beckon or call, the parents on 
one side of the way would join those on the other, 
and the children and nurses of both families would 
be given the liberty of the opposite platform and 
an ice-cream fund ! Generally the parents chose 
the Thompson platform, its outlook being more 
toward the sunset. 

Such happened to be the arrangement this after- 
noon. The two husbands sat on one bench and 
their wives on the other, both pairs very quiet, 
waiting respectfully for the day to die, and ex- 
changing only occasional comments on matters of 
light moment as they passed through the memory. 
During one term of silence Madame Varrillat, a 
pale, thin-faced, but cheerful-looking lady, touched 
Madame Thompson, a person of two and a half 
times her weight, on her extensive and snowy 
bare elbow, directing her attention obliquely up 
and across the road. 

About a hundred yards distant, in the direction 
of the river, was a long, pleasantly shaded green 
strip of turf, destined in time for a sidewalk. It 


84 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


had a deep ditch on the nearer side, and a fence of 
rough cypress palisades on the farther, and these 
were overhung, on the one hand, by a row of bit- 
ter-orange-trees inside the enclosure, and, on the 
other, by a line of slanting china-trees along the 
outer edge of the ditch. Down this cool avenue 
two figures were approaching side by side. They 
had first attracted Madame Varrillat’s notice by 
the bright play of sunbeams which, as they walked, 
fell upon them in soft, golden flashes through the 
chinks between the palisades. 

Madame Thompson elevated a pair of glasses 
which were no detraction from her very good 
looks, and remarked, with the serenity of a recon- 
noitring general : 

Pere Jerome etcette milatraiseP 

All eyes were bent toward them. 

“ She walks like a man,” said Madame Varrillat, 
in the language with which the conversation had 
opened. 

“No,” said the physician, “like a woman in a 
state of high nervous excitement.” 

Jean Thompson kept his eyes on the woman, and 
said : 

“ She must not forget to walk like a woman in 
the State of Louisiana,” — as near as the pun can 
be translated. The company laughed. Jean 
Thompson looked at his wife, whose applause he 
prized, and she answered by an asseverative toss 
of the head, leaning back and contriving, with 


MADAME DELPHINE 


85 


some effort, to get her arms folded. Her laugh 
was musical and low, but enough to make the 
folded arms shake gently up and down. 

“Pere Jerome is talking to her,” said one. The 
priest was at that moment endeavoring, in the in- 
terest of peace, to say a good word for the four 
people who sat watching his approach. It was in 
the old strain : 

“ Blame them one part, Madame Delphine, and 
their fathers, mothers, brothers, and fellow-citi- 
zens the other ninety-nine,” 

But to every thing she had the one amiable an- 
swer which Pere Jerome ignored : 

“ I am going to arrange it to satisfy everybody, 
all together. Toiii d 

“They are coming here,” said Madame Var- 
rillat, half articulately. 

“Well, of course,” murmured another; and the 
four rose up, smiling courteously, the doctor and 
attorney advancing and shaking hands with the 
priest. 

No — P^re Jerome thanked them — he could 
not sit down. 

“ This, I believe you know, Jean, is Madame 
Delphine ” — 

The quadroone courtesied. 

“A friend of mine,” he added, smiling kindly 
upon her, and turning, with something imperative 
in his eye, to the group. “ She says she has an 
important private matter to communicate.” 


86 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


“ To me ? ” asked Jean Thompson. 

“To all of you; so I will — Good-evening.” 
He responded nothing to the expressions of re- 
gret, but turned to Madame Delphine. She mur- 
mured something. 

“ Ah ! yes, certainly.” He addressed the com- 
pany. “ She wishes me to speak for her veracity ; 
it is unimpeachable. Well, good-evening.” He 
shook hands and departed. 

The four resumed their seats, and turned their 
eyes upon the standing figure. 

“ Have you something to say to us ? ” asked Jean 
Thompson, frowning at her law-defying bonnet. 

“Oui,” replied the woman, shrinking to one 
side, and laying hold of one of the benches, “ mo 
oule di* tou' f'ose ”— I want to tell every thing. 

Miche Vignevielle la plis bon homme di moune^'* 
— the best man in the world ; “ mo pas capabe li 
fe iracas"'^ — I cannot give him trouble. Mo 
pas capabe^ non; mloU dV tons f'osed^ She at- 
tempted to fan herself, her face turned away from 
the attorney, and her eyes rested on the ground. 

“ Take a seat,” said Doctor Varrillat, with some 
suddenness, starting from his place and gently 
guiding her sinking form into the corner of the 
bench. The ladies rose up; somebody had to 
stand ; the two races could not both sit down at 
once — at least not in that public manner. 

“Your salts,” said the physician to his wife. 
She handed the vial. Madame Delphine stood 
up again. 


MADAME DELPHI NE 


87 


“We will all go inside,” said Madame Thomp- 
son, and they passed through the gate and up the 
walk, mounted the steps, and entered the deep, 
cool drawing-room. 

Madame Thompson herself bade the quadroone 
be seated. 

“ Well ? ” said Jean Thompson, as the rest took 
chairs. 

“ Cest drole^' — it’s funny — said Madame Del- 
phine, with a piteous effort to smile, “ that nobody 
thought of it. It is so plain. You have only to 
look and see. I mean about Olive.” She loosed 
a button in the front of her dress and passed her 
hand into her bosom. “And yet, Olive herself 
never thought of it. She does not know a 
word.” 

The hand came out holding a miniature. Ma- 
dame Varrillat passed it to Jean Thompson. 

“ Ouala so popa^"* said Madame Delphine. 
“That is her father.” 

It went from one to another, exciting admira- 
tion and murmured praise. 

“ She is the image of him,” said Madame Thomp- 
son, in an austere undertone, returning it to her 
husband. 

Doctor Varrillat was watching Madame Del- 
phine. She was very pale. She had passed a 
trembling hand into a pocket of her skirt, and now 
drew out another picture, in a case the counterpart 
of the first. He reached out for it, and she handed 
it to him. He looked at it a moment, when his 


88 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


eyes suddenly lighted up and he passed it to the 
attorney. 

“ Et la ” — Madame Delphine’s utterance failed 
— “ et Id, ouala sa moman ” — that is her mother. 

The three others instantly gathered around Jean 
Thompson’s chair. They were much impressed. 

“ It is true beyond a doubt ! ” muttered Madame 
Thompson. 

Madame Varrillat looked at her with astonish- 
ment. 

“The proof is right there in the faces,” said 
Madame Thompson. 

“Yes ! yes ! ” said Madame' Delphine, excit- 
edly ; “ the proof is there ! You do not want any 
better ! I am willing to swear to it ! But you 
want no better proof ! That is all anybody could 
want ! My God ! you cannot help but see it ! ” 

Her manner was wild. 

Jean Thompson looked at her sternly. 

“ Nevertheless you say you are willing to take 
your solemn oath to this.” 

“Certainly” — 

“ You will have to do it.” 

“ Certainly, Miche Thompson, of course I shall ; 
you will make out the paper and I will swear be- 
fore God that it is true ! Only ” — turning to the 
ladies — “ do not tell Olive ; she will never be- 
lieve it. It will break her heart! It” — 

A servant came and spoke privately to Madame 
Thompson, who rose quickly and went to the hall. 
Madame Delphine continued,rising unconsciously; 


MADAME DELPHINE 


89 


“ You see, I have had her with me from a baby. 
She knows no better. He brought her to me only 
two months old. Her mother had died in the 
ship, coming out here. He did not come straight 
from home here. His people never knew he was 
married ! ” 

The speaker looked around suddenly with a 
startled glance. There was a noise of excited 
speaking in the hall. 

“ It is not true, Madame Thompson ! ” cried a 
girl’s voice. 

Madame Delphine’s look became one of wildest 
distress and alarm, and she opened her lips in a 
vain attempt to utter some request, when Olive 
appeared a moment in the door, and then flew into 
her arms. 

“ My mother ! my mother ! my mother ! ” 

Madame Thompson, with tears in her eyes, ten- 
derly drew them apart and let Madame Delphine 
down into her chair, while Olive threw herself 
upon her knees, continuing to cry: 

“ Oh, my mother ! Say you are my mother ! ” 

Madame Delphine looked an instant into the 
upturned face, and then turned her own away, 
with a long, low cry of pain, looked again, and lay- 
ing both hands upon the suppliant’s head, said ; 

“ Oh, chhre piti d moin, to pa^ ma fie! ” — Oh, 
my darling little one, you are not my daughter ! — 
Her eyes closed, and her head sank back ; the two 
gentlemen sprang to her assistance, and laid her 
upon a sofa unconscious. 


90 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


When they brought her to herself, Olive was 
kneeling at her head silently weeping. 

Maman, chere maman! ” said the girl softly, 
kissing her lips. 

“ Ma courri c'ez main ” — I will go home — said 
the mother, drearily. 

“You will go home with me,” said Madame 
Varrillat, with great kindness of manner — “just 
across the street here; I will take care of you till 
you feel better. And Olive will stay here with 
Madame Thompson. You will be only the width 
of the street apart.” 

But Madame Delphine would go nowhere but 
to her home. Olive she would not allow to go 
with her. Then they wanted to send a servant or 
two to sleep in the house with her for aid and pro- 
tection ; but all she would accept was the transient 
service of a messenger to invite two of her kins- 
people — man and wife — to come and make their 
dwelling with her. 

In course of time these two — a poor, timid, 
helpless pair — fell heir to the premises. Their 
children had it after them ; but, whether in those 
hands or these, the house had its habits and con- 
tinued in them ; and to this day the neighbors, as 
has already been said, rightly explain its close- 
sealed, uninhabited look by the all-sufficient state- 
ment that the inmates “ is quadroons.” 


MADAME DELPHINE 


91 


XV 

Kyrie Eleison 

HE second Saturday afternoon follow- 
ing was hot and calm. The lamp burn- 
ing before the tabernacle in P^re Je- 
rome’s little church might have hung 
with as motionless a flame in the window behind. 
The lilies of St. Joseph’s wand, shining in one of 
the half opened panes, were not more completely at 
rest than the leaves on tree and vine without, sus- 
pended in the slumbering air. Almost as still, 
down under the organ-gallery, with a single band 
of light falling athwart his box from a small door 
which stood ajar, sat the little priest, behind the 
lattice of the confessional, silently wiping away 
the sweat that beaded on his brow and rolled down 
his face. At distant intervals the shadow of some 
one entering softly through the door would ob- 
scure, for a moment, the band of light, and an aged 
crone, or a little boy, or some gentle presence that 
the listening confessor had known only by the 
voice for many years, would kneel a few moments 



92 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


beside his waiting ear, in prayer for blessing and 
in review of those slips and errors which prove us 
all akin. 

The day had been long and fatiguing. First, 
early mass ; a hasty meal ; then a business call 
upon the archbishop in the interest of some pro- 
jected charity; then back to his cottage, and so 
to the banking-house of “ Vignevielle,” in the Rue 
Toulouse. There all was open, bright, and re- 
assured, its master virtually, though not actually, 
present. The search was over and the seekers 
gone, personally wiser than they would tell, and 
officially reporting that (to the best of their know- 
ledge and belief, based on evidence, and especially 
on the assurances of an unexceptionable eye-wit- 
ness, to wit. Monsieur Vignevielle, banker) Capi- 
taine Lemaitre was dead and buried. At noon 
there had been a wedding in the little church. Its 
scenes lingered before Pere Jerome’s vision now 
— the kneeling pair : the bridegroom, rich in all 
the excellences of man, strength and kindness 
slumbering interlocked in every part and feature ; 
the bride, a saintly weariness on her pale face, her 
awesome eyes lifted in adoration upon the image 
of the Saviour ; the small knots of friends behind ; 
Madame Thompson, large, fair, self-contained; 
Jean Thompson, with the affidavit of Madame 
Delphine showing through his tightly buttoned 
coat ; the physician and his wife, sharing one ex- 
pression of amiable consent; and last — yet first 


MADAME DELPHINE 


93 


— one small, shrinking female figure, here at one 
side, in faded robes and dingy bonnet. She sat 
as motionless as stone, yet wore a look of appre- 
hension, and in the small, restless black eyes 
which peered out from the pinched and wasted 
face, betrayed the peacelessness of a harrowed 
mind ; and neither the recollection of bride, nor 
of groom, nor of potential friends behind, nor the 
occupation of the present hour, could shut out from 
the tired priest the image of that woman, or the 
sound of his own low words of invitation to her, 
given as the company left the church — “ Come to 
confession this afternoon.” 

By and by a long time passed without the ap- 
proach of any step, or any glancing of light or 
shadow, save for the occasional progress from sta- 
tion to station of some one over on the right who 
was noiselessly going the way of the cross. Yet 
P^re Jerome tarried. 

“She will surely come,” he said to himself; 
“she promised she would come.” 

A moment later, his sense, quickened by the 
prolonged silence, caught a subtle evidence or two 
of approach, and the next moment a penitent knelt 
noiselessly at the window of his box, and the whis- 
per came tremblingly, in the voice he had waited 
to hear ; 

Bhiissez-moin, mo' Pere, pa'ce qtie mo picheP 
(Bless me, father, for I have sinned.) 

He gave his blessing. 


94 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


**Amsi soii-il — Amen,” murmured the peni- 
tent, and then, in the soft accents of the Creole 
patois, continued: 

“ ‘ I confess to Almighty God, to the blessed 
Mary, ever Virgin, to blessed Michael the Arch- 
angel, to blessed John the Baptist, to the holy 
Apostles Peter and Paul, and to all the saints, that 
I have sinned exceedingly in thought, -word, and 
deed, through my fault, through my fault, through 
my most grievous fault' I confessed on Saturday, 
three vi^eeks ago, and received absolution, and I 
have performed the penance enjoined. Since 
then” — There she stopped. 

There was a soft stir, as if she sank slowly 
down, and another as if she rose up again, and in 
a moment she said : 

Olive is my child. The picture I showed to 
Jean Thompson is the half-sister of my daughter’s 
father, dead before my child was born. She is 
the image of her and of him ; but, O God ! Thou 
knowest ! Oh, Olive, my own daughter ! ” 

She ceased, and was still. P^re Jerome waited, 
but no sound came. He looked through the win- 
dow. She was kneeling, with her forehead rest- 
ing on her arms — motionless. 

He repeated the words of absolution. Still she 
did not stir. 

“My daughter,” he said, “go to thy home in 
peace.” But she did not move. 

He rose hastily, stepped from the box, raised 
her in his arms, and called her by name : 


MADAME DELPHI NE 


95 


“Madame Delphine ! ” Her bead fell back in 
his elbow; for an instant there was life in the 
eyes — it glimmered — it yanished, and tears 
gushed from his own and fell upon the gentle 
face of the dead, as he looked up to heaven and 
cried ; 

“ Lord, lay not this sin to her charge ! ” 



4 



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CAFfi DES EXILfiS 














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CAFfi DBS EXILfiS 


HAT which in 1835 — I think he said 
thirty-five — was a reality in the Rue 
Burgundy — I think he said Burgundy 
— is now but a reminiscence. Yet so 
vividly was its story told me, that at this moment 
the old Cafd des Exiles appears before my eye, 
floating in the clouds of revery, and I doubt not I 
see it just as it was in the old times. 

An antiquated story-and-a-half Creole cottage 
sitting right down on the banquette, as do the 
Choctaw squaws who sell bay and sassafras and 
life-everlasting, with a high, close board-fence 
shutting out of view the diminutive garden on the 
southern side. An ancient willow droops over 
the roof of round tiles, and partly hides the dis- 
colored stucco, which keeps dropping off into the 
garden as though the old cafe was stripping for 
the plunge into oblivion — disrobing for its execu- 
tion. I see, well up in the angle of the broad side 
99 



lOO 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


gable, shaded by its rude awning of clapboards, as 
the eyes of an old dame are shaded by her wrinkled 
hand, the window of Pauline. Oh for the image 
of the maiden, were it but for one moment, lean- 
ing out of the casement to hang her mocking-bird 
and looking down into the garden, — where, above 
the barrier of old boards, I see the top of the fig- 
tree, the pale green clump of bananas, the tall pal- 
metto with its jagged crown, Pauline’s own two 
orange-trees holding up their hands toward the 
window, heavy with the promises of autumn ; the 
broad, crimson mass of the many-stemmed olean- 
der, and the crisp boughs of the pomegranate 
loaded with freckled apples, and with here and 
there a lingering scarlet blossom. 

The Caf(§ des Exiles, to use a figure, flowered, 
bore fruit, and dropped it long ago — or rather 
Time and Fate, like some uncursed Adam and 
Eve, came side by side and cut away its clusters, 
as we sever the golden burden of the banana from 
its stem; then, like a banana which has borne 
its fruit, it was razed to the ground and made way 
for a newer, brighter growth. I believe it would 
set every tooth on edge should I go by there now, 
— now that I have heard the story, — and see the 
.old site covered by the“Shoo-fly Coffee-house.” 
Pleasanter far to close my eyes and call to view 
the unpretentious portals of the old cafe, with her 
children — for such those exiles seem to me — 
dragging their rocking-chairs out, and sitting in 
their wonted group under the long, out-reaching 




caf£ des exiles 


lOI 


eaves which shaded the banquette of the Rue Bur- 
gundy. 

It was in 1835 that the Cafe des Exiles was, as 
one might say, in full blossom. Old M. D’Heme- 
court, father of Pauline and host of the cafe, him- 
self a refugee from San Domingo, was the cause 
— at least the human cause — of its opening. As 
its white-curtained, glazed doors expanded, emit- 
ting a little puff of his own cigarette smoke, it was 
like the bursting of catalpa blossoms, and the ex- 
iles came like bees, pushing into the tiny room to 
sip its rich variety of tropical sirups, its lemon- 
ades, its orangeades, its orgeats, its barley-waters, 
and its outlandish wines, while they talked of dear 
home — that is to say, of Barbadoes, of Martinique, 
of San Domingo, and of Cuba. 

There were Pedro and Benigno, and Fernandez 
and Francisco, and Benito. Benito was a tall, 
swarthy man, with immense gray moustachios, and 
hair as harsh as tropical grass and gray as ashes. 
When he could spare his cigarette from his lips, 
he would tell you in a cavernous voice, and 
with a wrinkled smile, that he was “ a-t-thorty- 
seveng.” 

There was Martinez of San Domingo, yellow as 
a canary, always sitting with one leg curled under 
him, and holding the back of his head in his knitted 
fingers against the back of his rocking-chair. Fa- 
ther, mother, brother, sisters, all, had been mas- 
sacred in the struggle of ’21 and ’22; he alone 
was left to tell the tale, and told it often, with that 


102 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


strange, infantile insensibility to the solemnity of 
his bereavement so peculiar to Latin people. 

But, besides these, and many who need no men- 
tion, there were two in particular, around whom 
all the story of the Cafe des Exiles, of old M. 
D’Hemecourt and of Pauline, turns as on a double 
centre. First, Manuel Mazaro, whose small, rest- 
less eyes were as black and bright as those of a 
mouse, whose light talk became his dark, girlish 
face, and whose redundant locks curled so prettily 
and so wonderfully black under the fine white 
brim of his jaunty Panama. He had the hands of 
a woman, save that the nails were stained with 
the smoke of cigarettes. He could play the guitar 
delightfully, and wore his knife down behind his 
coat-collar. 

The second was “ Major ” Galahad Shaugh- 
nessy. I imagine I can see him, in his white 
duck, brass-buttoned roundabout, with his sabre- 
less belt peeping out beneath, all his boyishness 
in his sea-blue eyes, leaning lightly against the 
door-post of the Cafe des Exiles as a child leans 
against his mother, running his fingers over a 
basketful of fragrant limes, and watching his 
chance to strike some solemn Creole under the 
fifth rib with a good old Irish joke. 

Old D’Hemecourt drew him close to his bosom. 
The Spanish Creoles were, as the old man termed 
it, both cold and hot, but never warm. Major 
Shaughnessy was warm, and it was no uncommon 
thing to find those two apart from the others, talk- 


caf£ des exil£s 


103 


ing in an undertone, and playing at confidantes 
like two school-girls. The kind old man was at 
this time drifting close up to his sixtieth year. 
There was much he could tell of San Domingo, 
whither he had been carried from Martinique in 
his childhood, whence he had become a refugee to 
Cuba, and thence to New Orleans in the flight of 
1809. 

It fell one day to Manuel Mazaro’s lot to dis- 
cover, by sauntering within earshot, that to Gala- 
had Shaughnessy only, of all the children of the 
Cafe des Exiles, the good host spoke long and con- 
fidentially concerning his daughter. The words, 
half heard and magnified like objects seen in a 
fog, meaning Manuel Mazaro knew not what, but 
made portentous by his suspicious nature, were 
but the old man’s recital of the grinding he had 
got between the millstones of his poverty and his 
pride, in trying so long to sustain, for little Paul- 
ine’s sake, that attitude before society which earns 
respect from a surface- viewing world. It was while 
he was telling this that Manuel Mazaro drew 
near ; the old man paused in an embarrassed way ; 
the Major, sitting sidewise in his chair, lifted his 
cheek from its resting-place on his elbow; and 
Mazaro, after standing an awkward moment, 
turned away with such an inward feeling as one 
may guess would arise in a heart full of Cuban 
blood, not unmixed with Indian. 

As he moved off, M. D’Hemecourt resumed : 
that in a last extremity he had opened, partly from 


X04 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


dire want, partly for very love to homeless souls, 
the Cafe des Exiles. He had hoped that, as strong 
drink and high words were to be alike unknown 
to it, it might not prejudice sensible people ; but 
it had. He had no doubt they said among them- 
selves, “ She is an excellent and beautiful girl and 
deserving all respect ; ” and respect they accorded, 
but their respects they never came to pay. 

“ A cafe is a caft,” said the old gentleman. “ It 
is not possib’ to ezcape him, aldough de Cafe des 
Exiles is differen’ from de rez.” 

“ It’s different from the Caf6 des Rdfugi^s,” sug- 
gested the Irishman. 

“Differen’ as possib’,” replied M. D’Heme- 
court. He looked about upon the walls. The 
shelves were luscious with ranks of cooling sirups 
which he alone knew how to make. The ex- 
pression of his face changed from sadness to a 
gentle pride, which spoke without words, saying 
— and let our story pause a moment to hear it 
say; 

“ If any poor exile, from any island where guavas 
or mangoes or plantains grow, wants a draught 
which will make him see his home among the 
cocoa-palms, behold the Caf6 des Exiles ready to 
take the poor child up and give him the breast ! 
And if gold or silver he has them not, why Heaven 
and Santa Maria, and Saint Christopher bless him ! 
It makes no difference. Here is a rocking-chair, 
here a cigarette, and here a light from the host’s 
own tinder. He will pay when he can.” 


CAF^ DES EXILES 


los 

As this easily pardoned pride said, so it often oc- 
curred ; and if the newly come exile said his father 
was a Spaniard — “ Come! ” old M. D’Heme- 
court would cry; “another glass; it is an inno- 
cent drink ; my mother was a Castilian.” But, if 
the exile said his mother was a Frenchwoman, the 
glasses would be forthcoming all the same, for 
“ My father,” the old man would say, “ was a 
Frenchman of Martinique, with blood as pure as 
that wine and a heart as sweet as this honey; 
come, a glass of orgeat;” and he would bring it 
himself in a quart tumbler. 

Now, there are jealousies and jealousies. There 
are people who rise up quickly and kill, and there 
are others who turn their hot thoughts over si- 
lently in their minds as a brooding bird turns her 
eggs in the nest. Thus did Manuel Mazaro, and 
took it ill that Galahad should see a vision in the 
temple while he and all the brethren tarried with- 
out. Pauline had been to the Cafe des Exiles in 
some degree what the image of the Virgin was to 
their churches at home; and for her father to 
whisper her name to one and not to another was, 
it seemed to Mazaro, as if the old man, were he a 
sacristan, should say to some single worshiper, 
“ Here, you may have this madonna; I make it a 
present to you.” Or, if such was not the hand- 
some young Cuban’s feeling, such, at least, was 
the disguise his jealousy put on. If Pauline was 
to be handed down from her niche, why, then, 
farewell Cafe des Exiles. She was its preserving 


io6 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


influence, she made the place holy ; she was the 
burning candles on the altar. Surely the reader 
will pardon the pen that lingers in the mention of 
her. 

And yet I know not how to describe the forbear- 
ing, unspoken tenderness with which all these ex- 
iles regarded the maiden. In the balmy after- 
noons, as I have said, they gathered about their 
mother’s knee, that is to say, upon the banquette 
outside the door. There, lolling back in their 
rocking-chairs, they would pass the evening hours 
with oft-repeated tales of home; and the moon 
would come out and glide among the clouds like 
a silver barge among islands wrapped in mist, and 
they loved the silently gliding orb with a sort of 
worship, because from her soaring height she 
looked down at the same moment upon them and 
upon their homes in the far Antilles. It was 
somewhat thus that they looked upon Pauline as 
she seemed to them held up half way to heaven, 
they knew not how. Ah ! those who have been 
pilgrims ; who have wandered out beyond harbor 
and light; whom fate hath led in lonely paths 
strewn with thorns and briers not of their own 
sowing; who, homeless in a land of homes, see 
windows gleaming and doors ajar, but not for 
them, — it is they who well understand what the 
worship is that cries to any daughter of our dear 
mother Eve whose footsteps chance may draw 
across the path, the silent, beseeching cry, “ Stay 
a little instant that I may look upon you. Oh, 


CAF^ DES EXILES 


107 


woman, beautifier of the earth ! Stay till I recall 
the face of my sister ; stay yet a moment while I 
look from afar, with helpless -hanging hands upon 
the softness of thy cheek, upon the folded coils of 
thy shining hair; and my spirit shall fall down 
and say those prayers which I may never again — 
God knoweth — say at home.” 

She was seldom seen ; but sometimes, when the 
lounging exiles would be sitting in their afternoon 
circle under the eaves, and some old man would 
tell his tale of fire and blood and capture and es- 
cape, and the heads would lean forward from the 
chair-backs and a great stillness would follow the 
ending of the story, old M. D’Hemecourt would 
all at once speak up and say, laying his hands 
upon the narrator’s knee, “ Comrade, your throat 
is dry, here are fresh limes ; let my dear child her- 
self come and mix you a fresh lemonade.” Then 
the neighbors over the way, sitting about their 
doors, would by and by softly say, “ See, see ! 
there is Pauline ! ” and all the exiles would rise 
from their rocking-chairs, take off their hats and 
stand as men stand in church, while Pauline came 
out like the moon from a cloud, descended the 
three steps of the cafd door, and stood with waiter 
and glass, a new Rebecca with her pitcher, before 
the swarthy wanderer. 

What tales that would have been tear-compell- 
ing, nay, heart-rending, had they not been palpa- 
ble inventions, the pretty, womanish Mazaro from 
time to time poured forth, in the ever ungratified 


io8 OLD CREOLE DAYS 

hope that the goddess might come down with a 
draught of nectar for him, it profiteth not to re- 
count ; but I should fail to show a family feature 
of the Cafe des Exiles did I omit to say that these 
make-believe adventures were heard with every 
mark of respect and credence ; while, on the other 
hand, they were never attempted in the presence 
of the Irishman. He would have moved an eye- 
brow, or made some barely audible sound, or 
dropped some seemingly innocent word, and the 
whole company, spite of themselves, would have 
smiled. Wherefore, it may be doubted whether 
at any time the curly-haired young Cuban had 
that playful affection for his Celtic comrade, which 
a habit of giving little velvet taps to Galahad’s 
cheek made a show of. 

Such was the Caf6 des Exiles, such its inmates, 
such its guests, when certain apparently trivial 
events began to fall around it as germs of blight 
fall upon corn, and to bring about that end which 
cometh to all things. 

The little seed of jealousy, dropped into the 
heart of Manuel Mazaro, we have already taken 
into account. 

Galahad Shaughnessy began to be specially 
active in organizing a society of Spanish Ameri- 
cans, the design of which, as set forth in its manu- 
script constitution, was to provide proper funeral 
honors to such of .heir membership as might be 
overtaken by death ; and, whenever it was practi- 
cable, to send their ashes to their native land. 
Next to Galahad in this movement was an elegant 


caf£ des exiles 


109 

old Mexican physician, Dr. , — his name es- 

capes me — whom the Cafe des Exiles sometimes 
took upon her lap — that is to say door-step — but 
whose favorite resort was the old Cafe des Refugies 
in the Rue Royale (Royal Street, as it was begin- 
ning to be called). Manuel Mazaro was made 
secretary. 

It was for some reason thought judicious for 
the society to hold its meetings in various places, 
now here, now there ; but the most frequent ren- 
dezvous was the Cafe des Exiles ; it was quiet ; 
those Spanish Creoles, however they may after- 
ward cackle, like to lay their plans noiselessly, like 
a hen in a barn. There was a very general confi- 
dence in this old institution, a kind of inward as- 
surance that “ mother wouldn’t tell ; ” though, 
after all, what great secrets could there be con- 
nected with a mere burial society ? 

Before the hour of meeting, the Caf6 des Exiles 
always sent away her children and closed her door. 
Presently they would commence returning, one by 
one, as a flock of wild fowl will do, that has been 
startled up from its accustomed haunt. Frequent- 
ers of the Cafe des R^fugi^s also would appear. A 
small gate in the close garden fence let them into 
a room behind the cafe proper, and by and by the 
apartment would be full of dark-visaged men con- 
versing in the low, courteous tone common to 
their race. The shutters of doors and windows 
were closed and the chinks stopped with cotton ; 
some people are so jealous of observation. 

On a certain night after one of these meetings 


no 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


had dispersed in its peculiar way, the members 
retiring two by two at intervals, Manuel Mazaro 
and M. D’Hemecourt were left alone, sitting close 
together in the dimly lighted room, the former 
speaking, the other, with no pleasant countenance, 
attending. It seemed to the young Cuban a 
proper precaution — he was made of precautions 

— to speak in English. His voice was barely 
audible. 

“ sayce to me, ‘ Manuel, she t-theeng I 

want-n to marry hore.’ Senor, you shouth *ave 
see’ him laugh ! ” 

M. D’Hemecourt lifted up his head, and laid 
his hand upon the young man’s arm. 

“ Manuel Mazaro,” he began, “ iv dad w’ad you 
say is nod ” — 

The Cuban interrupted. 

“ If is no’ t-thrue you will keel Manuel Mazaro ? 

— a’ r-r-right-a ! ” 

“No,” said the tender old man, “no, bud h-I 
am positeef dad de Madjor will shood you.” 

Mazaro nodded, and lifted one finger for atten- 
tion. 

“ sayce to me, ‘ Manuel, you goin’ tell-a 

Senor D’Hemecourt, I fin’-a you some nigh’ an’ 
cut-a you’ heart ou’.’ An’ I sayce to heem-a, 
‘Boat-a if Senor D’Hemecourt he fin’-in’ ou’ 
frone Pauline ’ ” — 

“ Silence fiercely cried the old man. “My 
God ! ’Sieur Mazaro, neider you, neider somebody 
helse s’all h’use de nem of me daughter. It is 


caf£. des exiles 


XII 


nod possib’ dad you s’all spick him ! I cannod 
pearmid thad.” 

While the old man was speaking these vehe- 
ment words, the Cuban was emphatically nodding 
approval. 

“ Co-rect-a, co-rect-a, Sehor,” he replied. “ Se- 
nor, you’ r-right-a ; escuse-a me, Senor, escuse-a 
me. Senor D’Hemecourt, Mayor Shaughness’, 
when he talkin’ wi’ me he usin’ hore-a name o the 
t-thime-a ! ” 

My fren’,” said M. D’Hemecourt, rising and 
speaking with labored control, “ I muz tell you 
good nighd. You ’ave sooprise me a verry gred 
deal. I s’all ^wvestigade doze ting; an’, Manuel 
Mazaro, h-I am a hole man ; bud I will requez 
you, iv dad wad you say is nod de true, my God ! 
not to h-ever ritturn again ad de Cafe des Exiles.” 

Mazaro smiled and nodded. * His host opened 
the door into the garden, and, as the young man 
stepped out, noticed even then how handsome was 
his face and figure, and how the odor of the night 
jasmine was filling the air with an almost insup- 
portable sweetness. The Cuban paused a mo- 
ment, as if to speak, but checked himself, lifted his 
girlish face, and looked up to where the daggers of 
the palmetto-tree were crossed upon the face oi 
the moon, dropped his glance, touched his Pan- 
ama, and silently followed by the bare-headed old 
man, drew open the little garden-gate, looked cau- 
tiously out, said good-night, and stepped into the 
street. 


II2 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


As M. D’Hemecourt returned to the door 
through which he had come, he uttered an ejac- 
ulation of astonishment. Pauline stood before 
him. She spoke hurriedly in French. 

“ Papa, papa, it is not true.” 

“ No, my child,” he responded, “ I am sure it 
is not true ; I am sure it is all false ; but why do 
I find you out of bed so late, little bird ? The 
night is nearly gone.” 

He laid his hand upon her cheek. 

“Ah, papa, I cannot deceive you. I thought 
Manuel would tell you something of this kind, 
and I listened.” 

The father’s face immediately betrayed a new 
and deeper distress. 

“Pauline, my child,” he said with tremulous 
voice, “ if Manuel’s story is all false, in the name of 
Heavenhow could you think he was going to tell it?” 

He unconsciously clasped his hands. The good 
child had one trait which she could not have in- 
herited from her father ; she was quick-witted and 
discerning ; yet now she stood confounded. 

“ Speak, my child,” cried the alarmed old man ; 
“ speak! let me live, and not die.” 

“ Oh, papa,” she cried, “ I do not know ! ” 

The old man groaned. 

“Papa, papa,” she cried again, “I felt it; I 
know not how; something told me.” 

“Alas!” exclaimed the old man, “if it was 
your conscience!” 

“No, no, no, papa,” cried Pauline, “but I was 


CAF^ DES EXILES 


“3 


afraid of Manuel Mazaro, and I think he hates him 

— and I think he will hurt him in any way he can 

— and I know he will even try to kill him. Oh! 
my God ! ” 

She struck her hands together above her head, 
and burst into a flood of tears. Her father looked 
upon her with such sad sternness as his tender 
nature was capable of. He laid hold of one of 
her arms to draw a hand from the face whither 
both hands had gone. 

“You know something else,” he said; “you 
know that the Major loves you, or you think so : 
is it not true ? ” 

She dropped both hands, and, lifting her stream- 
ing eyes that had nothing to hide straight to his, 
suddenly said: 

“ I would give worlds to think so ! ” and sunk 
upon the floor. 

He was melted and convinced in one instant. 

“ Oh, my child, my child,” he cried, trying to 
lift her. “ Oh, my poor little Pauline, your p^a 
is not angry. Rise, my little one ; so ; kiss me ; 
Heaven bless thee I Pauline, treasure, what shall 
I do with thee ? Where shall I hide thee ? ” 

“You have my counsel already, papa.” 

“ Yes, my child, and you were right. The Caf(§ 
des Exiles never should have been opened. It is 
no place for you; no place at all.” 

“ Let us leave it,” said Pauline. 

“ Ah ! Pauline, I would close it to-morrow if I 
could, but now it is too late; I cannot.” 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


II4 

Why ? ” asked Pauline pleadingly. 

She had cast an arm about his neck. Her tears 
sparkled with a smile. 

“ My daughter, I cannot tell you ; you must go 
now to bed; good-night — or good-morning; God 
keep you ! ” 

“Well, then, papa,” she said, “have no fear; 
you need not hide me ; I have my prayer-book, 
and my altar, and my garden, and my window ; 
my garden is my fenced city, and my window my 
watch-tower ; do you see ? ” 

“ Ah ! Pauline,” responded the father, “ but I 
have been letting the enemy in and out at pleas- 
ure.” 

“ Good-night,” she answered, and kissed him 
three times on either cheek ; “ the blessed Virgin 
will take care of us ; good-night ; he never said 
those things; not he; good-night.” 

The next evening Galahad Shaughnessy and 
Manuel Mazaro met at that “ very different” place, 
the Cafe des Refugi6s. There was much free talk 
going on about Texan annexation, about chances 
of war with Mexico, about San Domingan affairs, 
about Cuba and many et-ceteras. Galahad was 
in his usual gay mood. He strode about among 
a mixed company of Louisianians, Cubans, and 
Am^ricains, keeping them in a great laugh with 
his account of one of Ole Bull’s concerts, and how 
he had there extorted an invitation from M. and 
Mme. Devoti to attend one of their famous chil- 
dren’s fancy dress balls. 


CAF^: DES EXILES 


”5 


“ Halloo ! ” said he as Mazaro approached, 
“heer’s the etheerial Angelica herself. Look-ut 
heer, sissy, why ar’n’t ye in the maternal arms of 
the Cafe des Exiles ? ” 

Mazaro smiled amiably and sat down. A mo- 
ment after, the Irishman, stepping away from his 
companions, stood before the young Cuban, and 
asked, with a quiet business air : 

“ D’ye want to see me, Mazaro ? ” 

The Cuban nodded, and they went aside. Ma- 
zaro, in a few quick words, looking at his pretty 
foot the while, told the other on no account to go 
near the Caf6 des Exiles, as there were two men 
hanging about there, evidently watching for him, 
and — 

“ Wut’s the use o’ that? ” asked Galahad; “ I 
say, wut’s the use o’ that ? ” 

Major Shaughnessy’s habit of repeating part of 
his words arose from another, of interrupting any 
person who might be speaking. 

“They must know — I say they must know that 
whenever I’m nowhurs else I’m heer. What do 
they want ? ” 

Mazaro made a gesture, signifying caution and 
secrecy, and smiled, as if to say, “ You ought to 
know.” 

“ Aha ! ” said the Irishman softly. “ Why don’t 
they come here ? ” 

“Z-afrai’,” said Mazaro; “d’they frai’ to do 
an’teen een d these-a crowth.” 

“ That’s so,” said the Irishman ; “ I say, that’s 


ii6 OLD CREOLE DAYS 

SO. If I don’t feel very much like go-un, I’ll not 
go ; I say, I’ll not go. We’ve no business to- 
night, eh, Mazaro ? ” 

“ No, Senor.” 

A second evening was much the same, Mazaro 
repeating his warning. But when, on the third 
evening, the Irishman again repeated his willing- 
ness to stay away from the Cafe des Exiles unless 
he should feel strongly impelled to go, it was with 
the mental reservation that he did feel very much 
in that humor, and, unknown to Mazaro, should 
thither repair, if only to see whether some of those 
deep old fellows were not contriving a practical 
joke. 

“ Mazaro,” said he, “ I’m go-un around the caur- 
nur a bit ; I want ye to wait heer till I come back. 
I say I want ye to wait heer till I come back; I’ll 
be gone about three-quarters of an hour.” 

Mazaro assented. He saw with satisfaction the 
Irishman start in a direction opposite that in which 
lay the Caf^ des Exiles, tarried fifteen or twenty 
minutes, and then, thinking he could step around 
to the Caf(6 des Exiles and return before the expi- 
ration of the allotted time, hurried out. 

Meanwhile that peaceful habitation sat in the 
moonlight with her children about her feet. The 
company outside the door was somewhat thinner 
than common. M. D’Hemecourt was not among 
them, but was sitting in the room behind the caf6. 
The long table which the burial society used at 
their meetings extended across the apartment, and 


CAF^: DBS exil£s 


II7 

a lamp had been placed upon it. M. D’Heme- 
court sat by the lamp. Opposite him was a chair, 
which seemed awaiting an expected occupant. 
Beside the old man sat Pauline. They were talk- 
ing in cautious undertones, and in French. 

“ No,” she seemed to insist; “we do not know 
that he refuses to come. We only know that 
Manuel says so.” 

The father shook his head sadly. “ When has 
he ever staid away three nights together before ? ” 
he asked. “ No, my child ; it is intentional. 
Manuel urges him to come, but he only sends 
poor excuses.” 

“ But,” said the girl, shading her face from the 
lamp and speaking with some suddenness, “ why 
have you not sent word to him by some other per- 
son ? ” 

M. D’Hemecourt looked up at his daughter a 
moment, and then smiled at his own simplicity. 

“ Ah ! ” he said. “ Certainly ; and that is what 
I will — run away, Pauline. There is Manuel, 
now, ahead of time ! ” 

A step was heard inside the caf6. The maiden, 
though she knew the step was not Mazaro’s, rose 
hastily, opened the nearest door, and disappeared. 
She had barely closed it behind her when Galahad 
Shaughnessy entered the apartment. 

M. D’Hemecourt rose up, both surprised and 
confused. 

“Good-evening, Munsher D’Himecourt,” said 
the Irishman. “ Munsher D’Himecourt, I know 


ii8 OLD CREOLE DAYS 

it’s against rules — I say, I know it’s against rules 
to come in here, but ” — smiling, — “ I want to 
have a private wurd with ye.” 

In the closet of bottles the maiden smiled tri- 
umphantly. She also wiped the dew from her 
forehead, for the place was very close and warm. 

With her father was no triumph. In him sad- 
ness and doubt were so mingled with anger that 
he dared not lift his eyes, but gazed at the knot in 
the wood of the table, which looked like a cater- 
pillar curled up. Mazaro, he concluded, had really 
asked the Major to come. 

“ Mazaro tol’ you ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes,” answered the Irishman. “ Mazaro told 
me I was watched, and asked ” — 

“ Madjor,” unluckily interrupted the old man, 
suddenly looking up and speaking with subdued 
fervor, “for w’y — iv Mazaro tol’ you — for w’y 
you din come more sooner? Dad is one ’eavy 
charge again’ you.” 

“ Didn’t Mazaro tell ye why I didn’t come ? ” 
asked the other, beginning to be puzzled at his 
host’s meaning. 

“ Yez,” replied M. D’Hemecourt, “ bud onebrev 
zhenteman should not be afraid of” — 

The young man stopped him with a quiet laugh. 
“ Munsher D’Himecourt,” said he, “ I’m not 
afraid of any two men living — I say I’m not 
afraid of any two men living, and certainly not of 
the two that’s bean a-watchin’ me lately, if they’re 
the two I think they are.” 


caf£: des exiljSs 


119 

M. D’Hemecourt flushed in a way quite incom- 
prehensible to the speaker, who nevertheless con- 
tinued : 

“ It was the charges,” he said, with some sly- 
ness in his smile. “ They are heavy, as ye say, 
and that’s the very reason — I say that’s the very 
reason why I staid away, ye see, eh ? I say that’s 
the very reason I staid away.” 

Then, indeed, there was a dew for the maiden 
to wipe from her brow, unconscious that every 
word that was being said bore a different signifi- 
cance in the mind of each of the three. The old 
man was agitated. 

“ Bud, sir,” he began, shaking his head and lift- 
ing his hand. 

“ Bless yer soul, Munsher D’Himecourt,” inter- 
rupted the Irishman. “ Wut’s the use o’ grapplin’ 
two cut-throats, when ” — 

“ Madjor Shaughnessy! ” cried M. D’Heme- 
court, losing all self-control. “ H-I am nod a cud- 
troad, Madjor Shaughnessy, h-an I ’ave a r-r-righd 
to wadge you.” 

The Major rose from his chair. 

“What d’ye mean?” he asked vacantly, and 
then : “ Look-ut here, Munsher D’Himecourt, 
one of uz is crazy. I say one ” — 

“ No, sar-r-r ! ” cried the other, rising and 
clenching his trembling fist. “ H-I am not crezzy. 
I ’ave de righd to wadge dad man wad mague 
rimark aboud me dotter.” 

“ I never did no such a thing.” 


120 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


“You did.” 

“ I never did no such a thing.” 

“ Bud you ’ave jus hacknowledge’ — ” 

“ I never did no such a things I tell ye, and the 
man that’s told ye so is a liur.” 

“ Ah-h-h-h !” said the old man, wagging his fin- 
ger. “ Ah-h-h-h ! You call Manuel Mazaro one 
liar ? ” 

The Irishman laughed out. 

“Well, I should say so ! ” 

He motioned the old man into his chair, and 
both sat down again. 

“ Why, Munsher D’Himecourt, Mazaro’s been 
keepin’ me away from heer with a yarn about two 
Spaniards watchin’ for me. That’s what I came in to 
ask ye about. My dear sur, do ye s’pose I wud talk 
about the goddess — I mean, yer daughter — to the 
likes o’ Mazaro — I say to the likes o’ Mazaro ? ” 

To say the old man was at sea would be too 
feeble an expression — he was in the trough of the 
sea, with a hurricane of doubts and fears whirling 
around him. Somebody had told a lie, and he, 
having struck upon its sunken surface, was dazed 
and stunned. He opened his lips to say he knew 
not what, when his ear caught the voice of Manuel 
Mazaro, replying to the greeting of some of his 
comrades outside the front door. 

“ He is cornin’ ! ” cried the old man. “ Mague 
you’sev hide, Madjor ; do not led ’im kedge you, 
Mon Dieu ! ” 

The Irishman smiled. 


CAF^ DBS EXILES 


121 


“ The little yellow wretch ! ” said he quietly, 
his blue eyes dancing. “ I’m goin’ to catch him^ 

A certain hidden hearer instantly made up her 
mind to rush out between the two young men 
and be a heroine. 

Non, nonP^ exclaimed M. D’Hemecourt ex- 
citedly. “ Nod in de Cafd des Exiles — nod now, 
Madjor. Go in dad door, hif you pliz, Madjor. 
You will heer ’im w’at he ’ave to say. Mague 
you’sev de troub’. Nod dad door — diz one.” 

The Major laughed again and started toward the 
door indicated, but in an instant stopped. 

*‘I can’t go in theyre,” he said. “That’s yer 
daughter’s room.” 

“ Otci, oui, mais!'*' cried the other softly, but 
Mazaro’s step was near. 

“ I’ll just slip in heer,” and the amused Shaugh- 
nessy tripped lightly to the closet door, drew it 
open in spite of a momentary resistance from 
within which he had no time to notice, stepped 
into a small recess full of shelves and bottles, shut 
the door, and stood face to face — the broad moon- 
light shining upon her through a small, high-grated 
opening on one side — with Pauline. At the Same 
instant the voice of the young Cuban sounded in 
the room. 

Pauline was in a great tremor. She made as if 
she would have opened the door and fled, but the 
Irishman gave a gesture of earnest protest and re- 
assurance. The re-opened door might make the 
back parlor of the Caf^ des Exiles a scene of 


122 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


blood. Thinking of this, what could she do? 
She staid. 

“You goth a heap-a thro-vle, Senor,” said 
Manuel Mazaro, taking the seat so lately vacated. 
He had patted M. D’Hemecourt tenderly on the 
back and the old gentleman had flinched; hence 
the remark, to which there was no reply. 

“Was a bee crowth a’ the Cafe the Refugiesf 
continued the young man. 

“ Bud w’ere dad Madjor Shaughnessy ? ” de- 
manded M. D’Hemecourt, with the little sternness 
he could command. 

“ Mayor Shaughness’ — yez-a ; was there ; 
boat-a,” with a disparaging smile and shake of 
the head, “ he woon-a come-a to you, Sehor, oh ! 
no.” 

The old man smiled bitterly. 

“ Non ” he asked. 

“ Oh, no, Senor ! ” Mazaro drew his chair closer. 
“ Senor ; ” he paused, — “ eez a- vary bath-a fore-a 
you thaughter, eh ? ” 

“ W’at? ” asked the host, snapping like a tor- 
mented dog. 

“D-theze talkin’ bou’,” answered the young 
man ; “ d-theze coffee-howces noth a goo’ plaze-a 
fore hore, eh? ” 

The Irishman and the maiden looked into each 
other’s eyes an instant, as people will do when 
listening; but Pauline’s immediately fell, and when 
Mazaro’s words were understood, her blushes be- 
came visible even by moonlight. 


caf£; des exiles 123 

“ He’s r-right ! ” emphatically whispered Gala- 
had. 

She attempted to draw back a step, but found 
herself against the shelves. M. D’Hemecourt had 
not answered. Mazaro spoke again. 

“ Boat-a you canno’ help -a, eh ? I know, ’out-a 
she gettin’ marry, eh ? ” 

Pauline trembled. Her father summoned all 
his force and rose as if to ask his questioner to 
leave him; but the handsome Cuban motioned 
him down with a gesture that seemed to beg for 
only a moment more. 

“ Senor, if a-was one man whath lo-va you’ 
thaughter, all is possiblee to lo-va.” 

Pauline, nervously braiding some bits of wire 
which she had unconsciously taken from a shelf, 
glanced up — against her will — into the eyes of 
Galahad. They were looking so, steadily down 
upon her that with a great leap of the heart for 
joy she closed her own and half turned away. But 
Mazaro had not ceased. 

“ All is possiblee to lo-va, Senor, you shouth-a let 
marry hore an’ tak’n’wayfrone d’thezeplaze,Senor.” 

“ Manuel Mazaro,” said M. D’PIemecourt, again 
rising, “you ’ave say enough.” 

“ No, no, Senor ; no, no ; I want tell-a you — 
is a-one man — whath lo-va you’ thaughter ; an’ I 
knowce him ! ” 

Was there no cause for quarrel, after all ? Could 
it be that Mazaro was about to speak for Galahad ? 
The old man asked in his simplicity : 


124 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


“ Madjor Sliaughnessy ? ” 

Mazaro smiled mockingly. 

“ Mayor Shaughness’,’’ he said ; “ oh, no ; not 
Mayor Shaughness’ ! ” 

Pauline could stay no longer ; escape she must, 
though it be in Manuel Mazaro’s very face. Turn- 
ing again and looking up into Galahad’s face in a 
great fright, she opened her lips to speak, but — 
“ Mayor Shaughness’,” continued the Cuban ; 
he nev’r-a lo-va you’ thaughter.” 

Galahad was putting the maiden back from the 
door with his hand. 

“ Pauline,” he said, “ it’s a lie ! ” 

“An’, Senor,” pursued the Cuban, “if a was 
possiblee you’ thaughter to lo-va heem, a-wouth-a 
be worse-akine in work; but, Senor,/” — 

M. D’Hemecourt made a majestic sign for si- 
lence. He had resumed his chair, but he rose up 
once more, took the Cuban’s hat from the table 
and tendered it to him. 

“ Manuel Mazaro, you ’ave ” — 

“ Senor, I goin’ tell you ” — 

“ Manuel Mazaro, you ” — 

“ Boat-a, Senor ” — 

“ Bud, Manuel Maz ” — 

“ Senor, escuse-a me ” — 

“ Huzh ! ” cried the old man. “ Manuel Ma- 
zaro, you ’ave desceive’ me ! You ’ave jnocqtie 
me, Manu” — 

“ Senor,” cried Mazaro, “ I swear-a to you that 
all-a what I sayin’ ees-a ” — 


caf£ des exiles 


125 


He stopped aghast. Galahad and Pauline stood 
before him. 

“ Is what? ” asked the blue-eyed man, with a 
look of quiet delight on his face, such as Mazaro 
instantly remembered to have seen on it one night 
when Galahad was being shot at in the Sucking 
Calf Restaurant in St. Peter Street. 

The table was between them, but Mazaro’s hand 
went upward toward the back of his coat-collar. 

“ Ah, ah ! ” cried the Irishman, shaking his 
head with a broader smile and thrusting his hand 
threateningly into his breast; “ don’t ye do that ! 
just finish yer speech.” 

“Was-a notthin’,” said the Cuban, trying to 
smile back. 

“ Yer a liur,” said Galahad. 

“No,” said Mazaro, still endeavoring to smile 
through his agony; “z-was on’y tellin’ Sehor 
D’Hemecourt someteen z-was t-thrue.” 

“ And I tell ye,” said Galahad, “ ye’r a liur, and 
to be so kind an’ get yerseP to the front stoop, as 
I’m desiruz o’ kickin’ ye before the crowd.” 

“ Madjor! ” cried D’Hemecourt — 

“ Go,” said Galahad, advancing a step toward 
the Cuban. 

Had Manuel Mazaro wished to personate the 
prince of darkness, his beautiful face had the cor- 
rect expression for it. He slowly turned, opened 
the door into the caf^, sent one glowering look 
behind, and disappeared. 

Pauline laid her hand upon her lover’s arm. 


126 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


“ Madjor !” began her father. 

“ Oh, Madjor and Madjor,” said the Irishman; 
“ Munsher D’Hemecourt, just say ‘ Madjor, heer’s 
a gude wife fur ye,’ and I’ll let the little serpent 
go.” 

Thereupon, sure enough, both M. D’Hemecourt 
and his daughter, rushing together, did what I 
have been hoping all along, for the reader’s sake, 
they would have dispensed with ; they burst into 
tears; whereupon the Major, with his Irish ap- 
preciation of the ludicrous, turned away to hide 
his smirk and began good-humoredly to scratch 
himself first on the temple and then on the thigh. 

Mazaro passed silently through the group about 
the door-steps, and not many minutes afterward, 
Galahad Shaughnessy, having taken a place among 
the exiles, rose with the remark that the old gen- 
tleman would doubtless be willing to tell them 
good-night. Good-night was accordingly said, 
the Cafe des Exilds closed her windows, then her 
doors, winked a moment or two through the 
cracks in the shutters and then went fast asleep. 

The Mexican physician, at Galahad’s request, 
told Mazaro that at the next meeting of the burial 
society he might and must occupy his accustomed 
seat without fear of molestation ; and he did so. 

The meeting took place some seven days after 
the affair in the back parlor, and on the same 
ground. Business being finished, Galahad, who 
presided, stood up, looking, in his white duck suit 
among his darkly-clad companions, like a white 


caf£ des exiles 


127 


sheep among black ones, and begged leave to or- 
der “ dlasses ” from the front room. I say among 
black sheep ; yet, I suppose, than that double row 
of languid, effeminate faces, one would have been 
taxed to find a more harmless-looking company. 
The glasses were brought and filled. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Galahad, “ comrades, this 
may be the last time we ever meet together an 
unbroken body.” 

Martinez of San Domingo, he of the horrible 
experience, nodded with a lurking smile, curled a 
leg under him, and clasped his fingers behind his 
head. 

“Who knows,” continued the speaker, “but 
Senor Benito, though strong and sound and har’ly 
thirty-seven” — here all smiled — “may be taken 
ill to-morrow ? ” 

Martinez smiled across to the tall, gray Benito 
on Galahad’s left, and he, in turn, smilingly showed 
to the company a thin, white line of teeth between 
his mustachios like distant reefs. 

“ Who knows,” the young Irishman proceeded 
to inquire, “ I say, who knows but Pedro, theyre, 
may be struck wid a fever ? ” 

Pedro, a short, compact man of thoroughly 
mixed blood, and with an eyebrow cut away, 
whose surname no one knew, smiled his acknowl- 
edgments. 

“ Who knows ? ” resumed Galahad, when those 
who understood English had explained in Spanish 
to those who did not, “ but they may soon need 


128 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


the services not only of our good doctor heer, but 
of our society; and that Fernandez and Benigno, 
and Gonzalez and Dominguez, may not be chosen 
to see, on that very schooner lying at the Picayune 
Tier just now, their beloved remains and so forth 
safely delivered into the hands and lands of their 
people. I say, who knows bur it may be so ! ” 
The company bowed graciously as who should 
say, “ Well-turned phrases, Senor — well-turned.” 

“And amigos, if so be that such is their ap- 
prooching fate, I will say: ” 

He lifted his glass, and the rest did the same. 

“ I say, I will say to them, Creoles, countrymen, 
and lovers, boun voyadge an’ good luck to ye’s.” 

For several moments there was much translat- 
ing, bowing, and murmured acknowledgments; 
Mazaro said: Bueno and all around among 
the long double rank of moustachioed lips amiable 
teeth were gleaming, some white, some brown, 
some yellow, like bones in the grass. 

“ And now, gentlemen,” Galahad recommenced, 
“fellow-exiles, once more. Munsher D’Hime- 
court, it was yer practice, until lately, to reward a 
good talker with a dlass from the hands o’ yer 
daughter.” (6'f, s{f) “ I’m bur a poor speaker.” 
{Si, St! Seiior, z-a-fine-a kin' -a can be ; si!) “ How- 
ever, I’ll ask ye, not knowun bur it may be the 
last time we all meet together, if ye will not let 
the goddess of the Caf^ des Exiles grace our com- 
pany with her presence for just about one min- 
ute?” {Yez-a, Senor ; si/ yez-a; oui.) 


CAF^: DBS EXILES 


129 


Every head was turned toward the old man, 
nodding the echoed request. 

“Ye see, friends,” said Galahad in a true Irish 
whisper, as M. D’Hemecourt left the apartment, 
“ her poseetion has been a-growin’ more and more 
embarrassin’ daily, and the operaytions of our so- 
ciety were likely to make it wurse in the future ; 
wherefore I have lately taken steps — I say I tuke 
steps this morn to relieve the old gentleman’s dis- 
tresses and his daughter’s” — 

He paused. M. D’Hemecourt entered with 
Pauline, and the exiles all rose up. Ah ! — but 
why say again she was lovely? 

Galahad stepped forward to meet her, took her 
hand, led her to the head of the board, and turn- 
ing to the company, said : 

“Friends and fellow-patriots, Misthress Shaugh- 
nessy.” 

There was no outburst of astonishment — only 
the same old bowing, smiling, and murmuring of 
compliment. Galahad turned with a puzzled look 
to M. D’Hemecourt, and guessed the truth. In 
the joy of an old man’s heart he had already that 
afternoon told the truth to each and every man 
separately, as a secret too deep for them to reveal, 
but too sweet for him to keep. The Major and 
Pauline were man and wife. 

The last laugh that was ever heard in the Cafe 
des Exiles sounded softly through the room. 

“ Lads,” said the Irishman. “ Fill yer dlasses. 
Here’s to the Cafe des Exiles, God bless her ! ” 


130 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


And the meeting slowly adjourned. 

Two days later, signs and rumors of sickness 
began to find place about the Caf6 des Refugi^s, 
and the Mexican physician made three calls in one 
day. It was said by the people around that the 
tall Cuban gentleman named Benito was very sick 
in one of the back rooms. A similar frequency 
of the same physician’s calls was noticed about 
the Caf^ des Exiles. 

“ The man with one eyebrow,” said the neigh- 
bors, “is sick. Pauline left the house yesterday 
to make room for him.” 

“ Ah ! is it possible ? ” 

“ Yes, it is really true ; she and her husband. 
She took her mocking-bird with her ; he carried 
it ; he came back alone.” 

On the next afternoon the children about the 
Cafe des Rdfugies enjoyed the spectacle of the in- 
valid Cuban moved on a trestle to the Cafe des 
Exiles, although he did not look so deathly sick 
as they could have liked to see him, and on the 
fourth morning the doors of the Cafe des Exiles 
remained closed. A black-bordered funeral no- 
tice, veiled with crape, announced that the great 
Caller-home of exiles had served his summons 
upon Don Pedro Hernandez (surname borrowed 
for the occasion), and Don Carlos Mendez y 
Benito. 

The hour for the funeral was fixed at four P. M. 
It never took place. Down at the Picayune Tier 
on the river bank there was, about two o’clock 


CAF^ DES EXIL£S 


that same day, a slight commotion, and those who 
stood aimlessly about a small, neat schooner, said 
she was “ seized.” At four there suddenly ap- 
peared before the Caf6 des Exiles a squad of men 
with silver crescents on their breasts — police offi- 
cers. The old cottage sat silent with closed doors, 
the crape hanging heavily over the funeral notice 
like a widow’s veil, the little unseen garden send- 
ing up odors from its hidden censers, and the old 
weeping-willow bending over all. 

“ Nobody here ? ” asks the leader. 

The crowd which has gathered stares without 
answering. 

As quietly and peaceably as possible the officers 
pry open the door. They enter, and the crowd 
pushes in after. There are the two coffins, look- 
ing very heavy and solid, lying in state but un- 
guarded. 

The crowd draws a breath of astonishment. 
“ Are they going to wrench the tops off with hatchet 
and chisel ? ” 

Rap, rap, rap ; wrench, rap, wrench. Ah ! the 
cases come open. 

“ Well kept ? ” asks the leader flippantly. 

“ Oh, yes,” is the reply. And then all laugh. 

One of the lookers-on pushes up and gets a 
glimpse within. 

“ What is it ? ” ask the other idlers. 

He tells one quietly. 

“ What did he say ? ” ask the rest, one of an- 
other. 


132 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


“ He says they are not dead men, but new mus- 
kets ” — 

“ Here, clear out ! ” cries an officer, and the 
loiterers fall back and by and by straggle off. 

The exiles ? What became of them, do you 
ask? Why, nothing; they were not troubled, 
but they never all came together again. Said a 
chief-of-police to Major Shaughnessy years after- 
ward : 

“ Major, there was only one thing that kept your 
expedition from succeeding — you were too sly 
about it. Had you come out flat and said what 
you were doing, we’d never a-said a word to you. 
But that little fellow gave us the wink, and then 
we had to stop you.” 

And was no one punished ? Alas ! one was. 
Poor, pretty, curly-headed traitorous Mazaro ! He 
was drawn out of Carondelet Canal — cold, dead ! 
And when his wounds were counted — they were 
just the number of the Caffi des Exiles’ children, 
less Galahad. But the mother — that is, the old 
cafe — did not see it ; she had gone up the night 
before in a chariot of fire. 

In the files of the old “ Picayune ” and “ Price- 
Current” of 1837 may be seen the mention of 
Galahad Shaughnessy among the merchants — 
“ our enterprising and accomplished fellow-towns- 
man,” and all that. But old M. D’Hemecourt’s 
name is cut in marble, and his citizenship is in “ a 
city whose maker and builder is God.” 

Only yesterday I dined with the Shaughnessys 


caf£ des exiles 


133 


— fine old couple and handsome. Their children 
sat about them and entertained me most pleasantly. 
But there isn’t one can tell a tale as their father 
can — ’twas he told me this one, though here and 
there my enthusiasm may have taken liberties. 
He knows the history of every old house in the 
French Quarter ; or, if he happens not to know a 
true one, he can make one up as he goes along. 





BELLES DEMOISELLES 
PLANTATION 









BELLES DEMOISELLES 
PLANTATION 


HE original grantee was Count , 

assume the name to be De Charleu; 
the old Creoles never forgive a public 
mention. He was the French king’s 
commissary. One day, called to France to ex- 
plain the lucky accident of the commissariat hav- 
ing burned down with his account-books inside, 
he left his wife, a Choctaw Comtesse, behind. 

Arrived at court, his excuses were accepted, and 
that tract granted him where afterwards stood 
Belles Demoiselles Plantation. A man cannot re- 
member every thing! In a fit of forgetfulness he 
married a French gentlewoman, rich and beauti- 
ful, and “brought her out.” However, “All’s 
well that ends well; ” a famine had been in the 
colony, and the Choctaw Comtesse had starved, 
leaving nought but a half-caste orphan family lurk- 
ing on the edge of the settlement, bearing our 
French gentlewoman’s own new name, and being 
mentioned in Monsieur’s will. 



137 



138 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


And the new ComteSoe — she tarried but a 
twelvemonth, left Monsieur a lovely son, and de- 
parted, led out of this vain world by the swamp- 
fever. 

From this son sprang the proud Creole family 
of De Charleu. It rose straight up, up, up, gen- 
eration after generation, tall, branchless, slender, 
palm-like ; and finally, in the time of which I am 
to tell, flowered with all the rare beauty of a cen- 
tury-plant, in Artemise, Innocente, Felicite, the 
twins Marie and Martha, Leontine and little Sep- 
tima; the seven beautiful daughters for whom 
their home had been fitly named Belles Demoi- 
selles. 

The Count’s grant had once been a long Pointe, 
round which the Mississippi used to whirl, and 
seethe, and foam, that it was horrid to behold. 
Big whirlpools would open and wheel about in 
the savage eddies under the low bank, and close 
up again, and others open, and spin, and disap- 
pear. Great circles of muddy surface would boil 
up from hundreds of feet below, and gloss over, 
and seem to float away, — sink, come back again 
under water, and with only a soft hiss surge up 
again, and again drift off, and vanish. Every few 
minutes the loamy bank would tip down a great 
load of earth upon its besieger, and fall back a 
foot, — sometimes a yard, — and the writhing river 
would press after, until at last the Pointe was 
quite swallowed up, and the great river glided by 
in a majestic curve, and asked no more ; the bank 


BELLES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION 139 

stood fast, the “ caving ” became a forgotten mis- 
fortune, and the diminished grant ^vas a long, 
sweeping, willowy bend, rustling with miles of 
sugar-cane. 

Coming up the Mississippi in the sailing craft 
of those early days, about the time one first could 
descry the white spires of the old St. Louis Ca- 
thedral, you would be pretty sure to spy, just over 
to your right under the levee. Belles Demoiselles 
Mansion, with its broad veranda and red painted 
cypress roof, peering over the embankment, like a 
bird in the nest, half hid by the avenue of willows 
which one of the departed De Charleus, — he that 
married a Marot, — had planted on the levee’s 
crown. 

The house stood unusually near the river, facing 
eastward, and standing four-square, with an im- 
mense veranda about its sides, and a flight of steps 
in front spr^eading broadly downward, as we open 
arms to a child. From the veranda nine miles ot 
river were seen; and in their compass, near at 
hand, the shady garden full of rare and beautiful 
flowers ; farther away broad fields of cane and 
rice, and the distant quarters of the slaves, and on 
the horizon everywhere a dark belt of cypress forest. 

The master was old Colonel De Charleu, — Jean 
Albert Henri Joseph De Charleu-Marot, and 
“ Colonel ” by the grace of the first American 
governor. Monsieur, — he would not speak to 
any one who called him “ Colonel,” — was a hoary- 
headed patriarch. His step was firm, his form 


Z40 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


erect, his intellect strong and clear, his counte- 
nance classic, serene, dignified, commanding, his 
manners courtly, his voice musical, — fascinating. 
He had had his vices, — all his life ; but had borne 
them, as his race do, with a serenity of conscience 
and a cleanness of mouth that left no outward 
blemish on the surface of the gentleman. He had 
gambled in Royal Street, drunk hard in Orleans 
Street, run his adversary through in the duelling- 
ground at Slaughter-house Point, and danced and 
quarrelled at the St. Philippe Street theatre quad- 
roon balls. Even now, with all his courtesy and 
bounty, and a hospitality which seemed to be enter- 
taining angels, he was bitter-proud and penurious, 
and deep down in his hard-finished heart loved 
nothing but himself, his name, and his motherless 
children. But these ! — their ravishing beauty was 
all but excuse enough for the unbounded idolatry 
of their father. Against these seven goddesses 
he never rebelled. Had they even required him 
to defraud old De Carlos — 

I can hardly say. 

Old De Carlos was his extremely distant rela- 
tive on the Choctaw side. With this single ex- 
ception, the narrow thread-like line of descent 
from the Indian wife, diminished to a mere strand 
by injudicious alliances, and deaths in the gutters 
of old New Orleans, was extinct. The name, by 
Spanish contact, had become De Carlos ; but this 
one surviving bearer of it was known to all, and 
known only, as Injin Charlie. 


BELLES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION 141 

One thing I never knew a Creole to do. He 
will not utterly go back on the ties of blood, no 
matter what sort of knots those ties maybe. For 
one reason, he is never ashamed of his or his 
father’s sins; and for another, — he will tell you 
— he is “ all heart ! ” 

So the different heirs of the De Charleu estate 
had always strictly regarded the rights and inter- 
ests of the De Carloses, especially their ownership 
of a block of dilapidated buildings in a part of the 
city, which had once been very poor property, but 
was beginning to be valuable. This block had 
much more than maintained the last De Carlos 
through a long and lazy lifetime, and, as his house- 
hold consisted only of himself, and an aged and 
crippled negress, the inference was irresistible 
that he “had money.” Old Charlie, though by 
alias an “ Injin,” was plainly a dark white man, 
about as old as Colonel De Charleu, sunk in the 
bliss of deep ignorance, shrewd, deaf, and, by re- 
pute at least, unmerciful. 

The Colonel and he always conversed in Eng- 
lish. This rare accomplishment, which the former 
had learned from his Scotch wife, — the latter from 
up-river traders, — they found an admirable me- 
dium of communication, answering, better than 
French could, a similar purpose to that of the stick 
which we fasten to the bit of one horse and breast- 
gear of another, whereby each keeps his distance. 
Once in a while, too, by way of jest, English found 
its way among the ladies of Belles Demoiselles, 


142 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


always signifying that their sire was about to have 
business with old Charlie. 

Now a long-standing wish to buy out Charlie 
troubled the Colonel. He had no desire to oust 
him unfairly ; he was proud of being always fair ; 
yet he did long to engross the whole estate under 
one title. Out of his luxurious idleness he had 
conceived this desire, and thought little of so 
slight an obstacle as being already somewhat in 
debt to old Charlie for money borrowed, and for 
which Belles Demoiselles was, of course, good, 
ten times over. Lots, buildings, rents, all, might 
as well be his, he thought, to give, keep, or de- 
stroy. “ Had he but the old man’s heritage. 
Ah ! he might bring that into existence which his 
belles demoiselles had been begging for, ‘since 
many years j’ a home, — and such a home, — in 
the gay city. Here he should tear down this row 
of cottages, and make his garden wall ; there that 
long rope- walk should give place to vine-covered 
arbors ; the bakery yonder should make way for a 
costly conservatory ; that wine warehouse should 
come down, and the mansion go up. It should 
be the finest in the State. Men should never 
pass it, but they should say — ‘ the palace of the 
De Charleus ; a family of grand descent, a people 
of elegance and bounty, a line as old as France, a 
fine old man, and seven daughters as beautiful as 
happy; whoever dare attempt to marry there 
must leave his own name behind him ! ’ 

“ The house should be of stones fitly set, brought 


BELLES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION 143 

down in ships from the land of ‘ les Yankees,’ and 
it should have an airy belvedere, with a gilded im- 
age tiptoeing and shining on its peak, and from it 
you should see, far across the gleaming folds of 
the river, the red roof of Belles Demoiselles, the 
country-seat. At the big stone gate there should 
be a porter’s lodge, and it should be a privilege 
even to see the ground.” 

Truly they were a family fine enough, and fancy- 
free enough to have fine wishes, yet happy enough 
where they were, to have had no wish but to live 
there always. 

To those, who, by whatever fortune, wandered 
into the garden of Belles Demoiselles some sum- 
mer afternooh as the sky was reddening towards 
evening, it was lovely to see the family gathered 
out upon the tiled pavement at the foot of the broad 
front steps, gayly chatting and jesting, with that 
ripple of laughter that comes so pleasingly from 
a bevy of girls. The father would be found seated 
in their midst, the centre of attention and compli- 
ment, witness, arbiter, umpire, critic, by his beau- 
tiful children’s unanimous appointment, but the 
single vassal, too, of seven absolute sovereigns. 

Now they would draw their chairs near together 
in eager discussion of some new step in the dance, 
or the adjustment of some rich adornment. Now 
they would start about him with excited comments 
to see the eldest fix a bunch of violets in his but- 
ton-hole. Now the twins would move down a 
walk after some unusual flower, and be greeted 


144 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


on their return with the high pitched notes of de- 
lighted feminine surprise. 

As evening came on they would draw more qui- 
etly about their paternal centre. Often their 
chairs were forsaken, and they grouped them- 
selves on the lower steps, one above another, and 
surrendered themselves to the tender influences of 
the approaching night. At such an hour the 
passer on the river, already attracted by the dark 
figures of the broad-roofed mansion, and its woody 
garden standing against the glowing sunset, would 
hear the voices of the hidden group rise from the 
spot in the soft harmonies of an evening song; 
swelling clearer and clearer as the thrill of music 
warmed them into feeling, and presently joined 
by the deeper tones of the father’s voice ; then, as 
the daylight passed quite away, all would be still, 
and he would know that the beautiful home had 
gathered its nestlings under its wings. 

And yet, for mere vagary, it pleased them not 
to be pleased. 

“ Arti ! ” called one sister to another in the broad 
hall, one morning, — mock amazement in her dis- 
tended eyes, — “something is goin’ to took place ! ” 
“ Comm-e-n-tP” — long-drawn perplexity. 

“ Papa is goin’ to town ! ” 

The news passed up stairs. 

“Inno! ” — one to another meeting in a door- 
way, — “ something is goin’ to took place ! ” 

“ QiC est-ce-que c^est I ” — vain attempt at gruff- 
ness. 


BEJ.LES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION 145 

“ Papa is goin’ to town ! ” 

The unusual tidings were true. It was after- 
noon of the same day that the Colonel tossed his 
horse’s bridle to his groom, and stepped up to old 
Charlie, who was sitting on his bench under a 
China-tree, his head, as was his fashion, bound in 
a Madras handkerchief. The “ old man ” was 
plainly under the effect of spirits, and smiled a 
deferential salutation without trusting himself to 
his feet. 

“ Eh, well Charlie ! ” — the Colonel raised his 
voice to suit his kinsman’s deafness, — “ how is 
those times with my friend Charlie ? ” 

“Eh? ” said Charlie, distractedly. 

“ Is that goin’ well with my friend Charlie ? ” 

“In de house, — call her,” — making a pretence 
of rising. 

*‘Non, Non! I don’t want,” — the speaker 
paused to breathe — “ow is collection?” 

“Oh! ” said Charlie, “every day he make me 
more poorer ! ” 

“What do you hask for it? ” asked the planter 
indifferently, designating the house by a wave of 
his whip. 

“ Ask for w’at ? ” said Injin Charlie. 

“ De house ! What you ask for it ? ” 

“ I don’t believe,” said Charlie. 

“ What you would take for it ! ” cried the 
planter. 

“ Wait for w’at? ” 

“ What you would take for the whole block ? ” 


146 


OLD CREOLE DA YS 


“ I don’t want to sell him ! ” 

“ I’ll give you ten thousand dollah for it.” 

“ Ten t’ousand dollah for dis house ? Oh, no, 
dat is no price. He is blame good old house, — 
dat old house.” (Old Charlie and the Colonel 
never swore in presence of each other.) “ Forty 
years dat old house didn’t had to be paint ! I 
easy can get fifty t’ousand dollah for dat old 
house.” 

“ Fifty thousand picayunes ; yes,” said the 
Colonel. 

“ She’s a good house. Can make plenty money,” 
pursued the deaf man. 

“ That’s what makes you so rich, eh, Charlie? ” 

“ Nony I don’t make nothing. Too blame 
clever, me, dat’s de troub’. She’s a good house, 
— make money fast like a steamboat, — make a 
barrel full in a week ! Me, I lose money all de 
days. Too blame clever.” 

“ Charlie ! ” 

« Eh ? ” 

“ Tell me what you’ll take.” 

“ Make ? I don’t make nothing. Too blame 
clever.” 

“ What will you take ? ” 

“Oh! I got enough already, — half drunk 
now.” 

“ What will you take for the ’ouse ? ” 

“ You want to buy her ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” — (shrug), — “ may^<f, — if you 
sell it cheap.” 


BELLES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION 147 

“She’s a bully old house.” 

There was a long silence. By and by old 
Charlie commenced — 

“ Old Injin Charlie is a low-down dog.” 

“ Oest vrai, oui ! ” retorted the Colonel in an 
undertone. 

“ He’s got Injin blood in him.” 

The Colonel nodded assent. 

“ But he’s got some blame good blood, too, 
ain’t it ? ” 

The Colonel nodded impatiently. 

“ Bien ! Old ^Charlie’s Injin blood says, * sell 
de house, Charlie, you blame old fool! Maisy 
old Charlie’s good blood says, ‘ Charlie ! if you 
sell dat old house, Charlie, you low-down old dog, 
Charlie, what de Comte de Charleu make for you 
grace-gran’-muzzer, de dev’ can eat you, Charlie, 
I don’t care.” 

“ But you’ll sell it anyhow, won’t you, old 
man ? ” 

“ No ! ” And the no rumbled off in muttered 
oaths like thunder out on the Gulf. The incensed 
old Colonel wheeled and started off. 

“Curl!” (Colonel) said Charlie, standing up 
unsteadily. 

The planter turned with an inquiring frown. 

“ I’ll trade with you !” said Charlie. 

The Colonel was tempted. “ ’Ow’l you trade ? ” 
he asked. 

“ My house for yours ! ” 

The old Colonel turned pale with anger. He 


148 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


walked very quickly back, and came close up to 
his kinsman. 

“ Charlie ! ” he said. 

“ Injin Charlie,” — with a tipsy nod. 

But by this time self-control was returning. 
“ Sell Belles Demoiselles to you ? ” he said in a 
high key, and then laughed “ Ho, ho, ho ! ” and 
rode away. 

A cloud, but not a dark one, overshadowed the 
spirits of Belles Demoiselles’ plantation. The old 
master, whose beaming presence had always made 
him a shining Saturn, spinning and sparkling 
within the bright circle of his daughters, fell into 
musing fits, started out of frowning reveries, 
walked often by himself, and heard business from 
his overseer fretfully. 

No wonder. The daughters knew his closeness 
in trade, and attributed to it his failure to nego- 
tiate for the Old Charlie buildings, — so to call 
them. They began to depreciate Belles Demoi- 
selles. If a north wind blew, it was too cold to 
ride. If a shower had fallen, it was too muddy 
to drive. In the morning the garden was wet. 
In the evening the grasshopper was a burden. 
Ennui was turned into capital; every headache 
was interpreted a premonition of ague ; and when 
the native exuberance of a flock of ladies without 
a want or a care burst out in laughter in the 
father’s face, they spread their French eyes, rolled 
up their little hands, and with rigid wrists and 


BELLES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION 149 


mock vehemence vowed and vowed again that 
they only laughed at their misery, and should pine 
to death unless they could move to the sweet city. 
“ Oh ! the theatre ! Oh ! Orleans Street ! Oh ! 
the masquerade ! the Place d’Armes ! the ball ! ” 
and they would call upon Heaven with French 
irreverence, and fall into each other’s arms, and 
whirl down the hall singing a waltz, end with a 
grand collision and fall, and, their eyes streaming 
merriment, lay the blame on the slippery floor, 
that would some day be the death of the whole 
seven. 

Three times more the fond father, thus goaded, 
managed, by accident, — business accident, — to 
see old Charlie and increase his offer ; but in vain. 
He finally went to him formally. 

“Eh?” said the deaf and distant relative. “For 
what you want him, eh ? Why you don’t stay 
where you halways be ’appy ? Dis is a blame old 
rat-hole, — good for old Injin Charlie, — da’s all. 
Why you don’t stay where you be halways ’appy ? 
Why you don’t buy some where’s else ? ” 

“ That’s none of your business,” snapped the 
planter. Truth was, his reasons were unsatisfac- 
tory even to himself. 

A sullen silence followed. Then Charlie spoke. 

“Well, now, look here; I sell you old Charlie’s 
house.” 

“ Bien / and the whole block,” said the Colonel. 

“ Hold on,” said Charlie. “ I sell you de ’ouse 
and de block. Den I go and git drunk, and go to 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


150 

sleep ; de dev’ comes along and says, ‘ Charlie ! 
old Charlie, you blame low-down old dog, wake 
up! What you doin’ here? Where’s de ’ouse 
what Monsieur le Comte give your grace-gran- 
muzzer ? Don’t you see dat fine gentyman, De 
Charleu, done gone and tore him down and make 
him over new, you blame old fool, Charlie, you 
low-down old Injin dog 1 ’ ” 

“ I’ll give you forty thousand dollars,” said the 
Colonel. 

" For de ’ouse ? ” 

“ For all.” 

The deaf man shook his head. 

Forty-five I ” said the Colonel. 

“What a lie? For what you tell me ‘What a 
lie? ’ I don’t tell you no lie.” 

** Non, non! I give you forty -fiv e i'^'' shouted 
the Colonel. 

Charlie shook his head again. 

“ Fifty ! ” 

He shook it again. 

The figures rose and rose to — . 

“ Seventy-five ! ” 

The answer was an invitation to go away and 
let the owner alone, as he was, in certain specified 
respects, the vilest of living creatures, and no com- 
pany for a fine gentyman. 

The “fine gentyman” longed to blaspheme, — 
but before old Charlie! — in the name of pride, 
how could he ? He mounted and started away. 

“ Tell you what I’ll make wid you,” said Charlie. 


BELLES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION 151 

The other, guessing aright, turned back without 
dismounting, smiling. 

“ How much Belles Demoiselles hoes me now ? ” 
asked the deaf one. 

“ One hundred and eighty thousand dollars,” 
said the Colonel, firmly. 

“Yass,” said Charlie. “I don’t want Belles 
Demoiselles.” 

The old Colonel’s quiet laugh intimated it made 
no difference either way. 

“ But me,” continued Charlie, “ me, — I’m got 
le Comte De Charleu’s blood in me any’ow, — a 
litt’ bit, any’ow, ain’t it ? ” 

The Colonel nodded that it was. 

Bien ! If I go out of dis place and don’t go 
to Belles Demoiselles, de peoples will say, — dey 
will say, ‘ Old Charlie he been all doze time tell a 
blame lie ! He ain’t no kin to his old grace-gran- 
muzzer, not a blame bit ! He don’t got nary drop 
of De Charleu blood to save his blame low-down 
old Injin soul! ’ No, sare! What I want wid 
money, den? No, sare! My place for yours!” 

He turned to go into the house, just too soon 
to see the Colonel make an ugly whisk at him 
with his riding-whip. Then the Colonel, too, 
moved off. 

Two or three times over, as he ambled home- 
ward, laughter broke through his annoyance, as 
he recalled old Charlie’s family pride and the pre- 
sumption of his offer. Yet each time he could but 
think better of — not the offer to swap, but the 


152 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


preposterous ancestral loyalty. It was so much 
better than he could have expected from his “ low- 
down” relative, and not unlike his own whim 
withal — the proposition which went with it was 
forgiven. 

This last defeat bore so harshly on the master 
of Belles Demoiselles, that the daughters, reading 
chagrin in his face, began to repent. They loved 
their father as daughters can, and when they saw 
their pretended dejection harassing him seriously 
they restrained their complaints, displayed more 
than ordinary tenderness, and heroically and os- 
tentatiously concluded there was no place like 
Belles Demoiselles. But the new mood touched 
him more than the old, and only refined his 
discontent. Here was a man, rich without the 
care of riches, free from any real trouble, happi- 
ness as native to his house as perfume to his gar- 
den, deliberately, as it were with premeditated 
malice, taking joy by the shoulder and bidding 
her be gone to town, whither he might easily have 
followed, only that the very same ancestral non- 
sense that kept Injin Charlie from selling the old 
place for twice its value prevented him from choos- 
ing any other spot for a city home. 

But by and by the charm of nature and the merry 
hearts around him prevailed; the fit of exalted 
sulks passed oil, and after a while the year flared 
up at Christmas, flickered, and went out. 

New Year came and passed; the beautiful gar- 
den of Belles Demoiselles put on its spring attire ; 


BELLES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION 153 

the seven fair sisters moved from rose to rose; 
the cloud of discontent had warmed into invisible 
vapor in the rich sunlight of family affection, and 
on the common memory the only scar of last year’s 
wound was old Charlie’s sheer impertinence in 
crossing the caprice of the De Charleus. The 
cup of gladness seemed to fill with the filling of 
the river. 

How highThat river was ! Its tremendous cur- 
rent rolled and tumbled and spun along, hustling 
the long funeral flotillas of drift, — and how near 
shore it came ! Men were out day and night, 
watching the levee. On windy nights even the 
old Colonel took part, and grew light-hearted with 
occupation and excitement, as every minute the 
river threw a white arm over the levee’s top, as 
though it would vault over. But all held fast, 
and, as the summer drifted in, the water sunk 
down into its banks and looked quite incapable 
of harm. 

On a summer afternoon of uncommon mildness, 
old Colonel Jean Albert Henri Joseph De Char- 
leu-Marot, being in a mood for revery, slipped the 
custody of his feminine rulers and sought the 
crown of the levee, where it was his wont to prom- 
enade. Presently he sat upon a stone bench, — a 
favorite seat. Before him lay his broad-spread 
fields; near by, his lordly mansion; and being 
still, — perhaps by female contact, — somewhat sen- 
timental, he fell to musing on his past. It was 
hardly worthy to be proud of. All its morning 


154 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


was reddened with mad frolic, and far toward the 
meridian it was marred with elegant rioting. 
Pride had kept him well-nigh useless, and de- 
spised the honors won by valor; gaming had 
dimmed prosperity ; death had taken his heavenly 
wife ; voluptuous ease had mortgaged his lands ; 
and yet his house still stood, his sweet-smelling 
fields were still fruitful, his name was fame enough ; 
and yonder and yonder, among the trees and flow- 
ers, like angels walking in Eden, were the seven 
goddesses of his only worship. 

Just then a slight sound behind him brought 
him to his feet. He cast his eyes anxiously to the 
outer edge of the little strip of bank between the 
levee’s base and the river. There was nothing 
visible. He paused, with his ear toward the wa- 
ter, his face full of frightened expectation. Ha ! 
There came a single plashing sound, like some 
great beast slipping into the river, and little waves 
in a wide semi-circle came out from under the 
bank and spread over the water. 

“ My God ! ” 

He plunged down the levee and bounded through 
the low weeds to the edge of the bank. It was 
sheer, and the water about four feet below. He 
did not stand quite on the edge, but fell upon his 
knees a couple of yards away, wringing his hands, 
moaning and weeping, and staring through his 
watery eyes at a fine, long crevice just discernible 
under the matted grass, and curving outward on 
either hand toward the river. 


BELLES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION 


155 


“ My God ! ” he sobbed aloud ; “ my God ! ” 
and even while he called, his God answered : the 
tough Bermuda grass stretched and snapped, the 
crevice slowly became a gape, and softly, gradu- 
ally, with no sound but the closing of the water at 
last, a ton or more of earth settled into the boiling 
eddy and disappeared. 

At the same instant a pulse of the breeze brought 
from the garden behind, the joyous, thoughtless 
laughter of the fair mistresses of Belles Demoi- 
selles. 

The old Colonel sprang up and clambered over 
the levee. Then, forcing himself to a more com- 
posed movement, he hastened into the house and 
ordered his horse. 

“ Tell my children to make merry while I am 
gone,” he left word. “ I shall be back to-night,” 
and the horse’s hoofs clattered down a by-road 
leading to the city. 

“ Charlie,” said the planter, riding up to a win- 
dow, from which the old man’s nightcap was thrust 
out, “ what you say, Charlie, — my house for yours, 
eh, Charlie — what you say ? ” 

“ Elio ! ” said Charlie ; “ from where you come 
from dis time of to-night? ” 

“I come from the Exchange in St. Louis 
.Street.” (A small fraction of the truth.) 

“ What you want ? ” said matter-of-fact Charlie. 

“ I come to trade.” 

The low-down relative drew the worsted off his 
ears. “ Oh ! yass,” he said with an uncertain air. 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


156 

“ Well, old man Charlie, what you say : my 
house for yours, — like you said, — eh, Charlie?” 

“I dunno,” said Charlie; “it’s nearly mine 
now. Why you don’t stay dare youse’f ? ” 

“ Became I don’t want! ” said the Colonel sav- 
agely. “Is dat reason enough for you? You 
better take me in de notion, old man, I tell you, 
— yes ! ” 

Charlie never winced ; but how his answer de- 
lighted the Colonel ! Quoth Charlie ; 

“ I don’t care — I take him ! — maisy possession 
give right off.” 

“ Not the whole plantation, Charlie ; only ” — 

“ I don’t care,” said Charlie ; “ we easy can fix 
dat. Mais, what for you don’t want to keep him ? 
I don’t want him. You better keep him.” 

“ Don’t you try to make no fool of me, old 
man,” cried the planter. 

“ Oh, no ! ” said the other. “ Oh, no ! but you 
make a fool of yourself, ain’t it ? ” 

The dumbfounded Colonel stared ; Charlie went 
on : 

“Yass! Belles Demoiselles is more wort’ dan 
tree block like dis one. I pass by dare since two 
weeks. Oh, pritty Belles Demoiselles ! De cane 
was wave in de wind, de garden smell like a bou- 
quet, de white-cap was jump up and down on de 
river ; seven belles demoiselles was ridin’ on horses. 
‘ Pritty, pritty, pritty ! ’ says old Charlie. Ah ! 
Monsieur le perCy ’ow ’appy, ’appy, ’appy ! ” 

“ Yass ! ” he continued — the Colonel still star- 


BELLES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION 157 

ing — “le Comte De Charleu have two familie. 
One was low-down Choctaw, one was high up 
noblesse. He gave the low-down Choctaw dis old 
rat-hole ; he^'give Belles Demoiselles to you gran- 
fozzer; and now you don’t be satisfait. What 
I’ll do wid Belles Demoiselles ? She’ll break me 
in two years, yass. And what you’ll do wid old 
Charlie’s house, eh ? You’ll tear her down and 
make you’se’f a blame old fool. I rather wouldn’t 
trade ! ” 

The planter caught a big breathful of anger, but 
Charlie went straight on : 

“ I rather wouldn’t, mals I will do it for you ; — 
just the same, like Monsieur le Comte would say, 
‘ Charlie, you old fool, I want to shange houses 
wid you. ’ ” 

So long as the Colonel suspected irony he was 
angry, but as Charlie seemed, after all, to be cer- 
tainly in earnest, he began to feel conscience- 
stricken. He was by no means a tender man, but 
his lately-discovered misfortune had unhinged 
him, and this strange, undeserved, disinterested 
family fealty on the part of Charlie touched his 
heart. And should he still try to lead him into 
the pitfall he had dug? He hesitated; — no, he 
would show him the place by broad daylight, and 
if he chose to overlook the “ caving-bank,” it would 
be his own fault ; — a trade’s a trade. 

“ Come,” said the planter, “ come at my house 
to-night ; to-morrow we look at the place before 
breakfast, and finish the trade.” 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


iS8 

“ For what ? ” said Charlie. 

“ Oh, because I got to come in town in the 
morning.’’ 

“ I don’t want,” said Charlie. “ How I’m goin’ 
to come dere ? ” 

“ I git you a horse at the liberty stable.” 

“Well — anyhow — I don’t care — I’ll go.” 
And they went. 

When they had ridden a long time, and were on 
the road darkened by hedges of Cherokee rose, 
the Colonel called behind him to the “ low-down ’* 
scion : 

“ Keep the road, old man.” 

« Eh ? ” 

“ Keep the road.” 

“ Oh, yes ; all right ; I keep my word ; we don’t 
goin’ to play no tricks, eh ? ” 

But the Colonel seemed not to hear. His un- 
generous design was beginning to be hateful to 
him. Not only old Charlie’s unprovoked good- 
ness was prevailing; the eulogy on Belles Dem- 
oiselles had stirred the depths of an intense love 
for his beautiful home. True, if he held to it, the 
caving of the bank, at its present fearful speed, 
would let the house into the river within three 
months ; but were it not better to lose it so, than 
sell his birthright ? Again, — coming back to the 
first thought, — to betray his own blood ! It was 
only Injin Charlie; but had not the De Charleu 
blood just spoken out in him ? Unconsciously he 
groaned. 


BELLES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION 159 

After a time they struck a path approaching the 
plantation in the rear, and a little after, passing 
from behind^ a clump of live-oaks, they came in 
sight of the villa. It looked so like a gem, shin- 
ing through its dark grove, so like a great glow- 
worm in the dense foliage, so significant of luxury 
and gayety, that the poor master, from an over- 
flowing heart, groaned again. 

“ What ? ” asked Charlie. 

The Colonel only drew his rein, and, dismount- 
ing mechanically, contemplated the sight before 
him. The high, arched doors and windows were 
throwm wide to the summer air ; from every open- 
ing the bright light of numerous candelabra darted 
out upon the sparkling foliage of magnolia and 
bay, and here and there in the spacious verandas 
a colored lantern swayed in the gentle breeze. A 
sound of revel fell on the ear, the music of harps ; 
and across one window, brighter than the rest, 
flitted, once or twice, the shadows of dancers. But 
oh ! the shadows flitting across the heart of the 
fair mansion’s master ! 

“ Old Charlie,” said he, gazing fondly at his 
house, “ you and me is both old, eh ? ” 

“ Yaas,” said the stolid Charlie. 

“ And we has both been bad enough in our time, 
eh, Charlie ? ” 

Charlie, surprised at the tender tone, repeated 
“Yaas.” 

“ And you and me is mighty close ? ” 

“ Blame close, yaas.” 


i6o OLD CREOLE DAYS 

“ But you never know me to cheat, old man ! ” 

“ No,” — impassively. 

“ And do you think I would cheat you now ? ” 

I dunno,” said Charlie. “ I don’t believe.” 

“Well, old man, old man,” — his voice began 
to quiver, — “ I sha’n’t cheat you now. My God ! 

— old man, I tell you — you better not make the 
trade ! ” 

“ Because for what ? ” asked Charlie in plain 
anger ; but both looked quickly toward the house ! 
The Colonel tossed his hands wildly in the air, 
rushed forward a step or two, and giving one fear- 
ful scream of agony and fright, fell forward on his 
face in the path. Old Charlie stood transfixed 
with horror. Belles Demoiselles, the realm of 
maiden beauty, the home of merriment, the house 
of dancing, all in the tremor and glow of pleasure, 
suddenly sunk, with one short, wild wail of terror 

— sunk, sunk, down, down, down, into the merci- 
less, unfathomable flood of the Mississippi. 

Twelve long months were midnight to the mind 
of the childless father ; when they were only half 
gone, he took to his bed ; and every day, and every 
night, old Charlie, the “low-down,” the “fool,” 
watched him tenderly, tended him lovingly, for the 
sake of his name, his misfortunes, and his broken 
heart. No woman’s step crossed the floor of the 
sick-chamber, whose western dormer-windows 
overpeered the dingy architecture of old Charlie’s 
block ; Charlie and a skilled physician, the one all 
interest, the other all gentleness, hope, and pa- 
tience — these only entered by the door ; but by 


BELLES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION i6i 


the window came in a sweet-scented evergreen 
vine, transplanted from the caving banks of Belles 
Demoiselles. It caught the rays of sunset in its 
flowery net and let them softly in upon the sick 
man’s bed ; gathered the glancing beams of the 
moon at midnight, and often wakened the sleeper 
to look, with his mindless eyes, upon their pretty 
silver fragments strewn upon the floor. 

By and by there seemed — there was — a twink- 
ling dawn of returning reason. Slowly, peace- 
fully, with an increase unseen from day to day, the 
light of reason came into his eyes, and speech be- 
came coherent ; but withal there came a failing of 
the wrecked body, and the doctor said that mon- 
sieur was both better and worse. 

One evening, as Charlie sat by the vine-clad 
window with his fireless pipe in his hand, the old 
Colonel’s eyes fell full upon his own, and rested 
there. 

“Chari — ,’’ he said with an effort, and his de- 
lighted nurse hastened to the bedside and bowed 
his best ear. There was an unsuccessful effort or 
two, and then he whispered, smiling with sweet 
sadness, — 

“ We didn’t trade.” 

The truth, in this case, was a secondary matter 
to Charlie ; the main point was to give a pleasing 
answer. So he nodded his head decidedly, as who 
should say — “ Oh yes, we did, it was a bona-fide 
swap ! ” but when he saw the smile vanish, he 
tried the other expedient and shook his head 
with still more vigor, to signify that they had- not 


OLD CREOLE DA F5 


162 

SO much as approached a bargain; and the smile 
returned. 

Charlie wanted to see the vine recognized. He 
stepped backward to the window with a broad 
smile, shook the foliage, nodded and looked 
smart. 

“ I know,” said the Colonel, with beaming eyes, 
“ — many weeks.” 

The next day — 

« Chari ”— 

The best ear went down. 

“ Send for a priest.” 

The priest came, and was alone with him a 
whole afternoon. When he left, the patient was 
very haggard and exhausted, but smiled and 
would not suffer the crucifix to be removed from 
his breast. 

One more morning came. Just before dawn 
Charlie, lying on a pallet in the room, thought he 
was called, and came to the bedside. 

“ Old man,” whispered the failing invalid, “ is 
it caving yet ? ” 

Charlie nodded. 

“ It won’t pay you out.” 

“ Oh, dat makes not’ing,” said Charlie. Two 
big tears rolled down his brown face. “ Dat 
makes not’in.” 

The Colonel whispered once more : 

** Mes belles demoiselles! in paradise; — in the 
garden — I shall be with them at sunrise; ” and 
so it was. 



“POSSON JONE’” 



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“POSSON JONE’” 


O Jules St.-Ange — elegant little hea- 
then — there yet remained at manhood 
a remembrance of having been to 
school, and of having been taught by 
a stony-headed Capuchin that the world is round 
— for example, like a cheese. This round world 
is a cheese to be eaten through, and Jules had 
nibbled quite into his cheese-world already at 
twenty-two. 

He realized this as he idled about one Sunday 
morning where the intersection of Royal and 
Conti Streets some seventy years ago formed a 
central corner of New-Orleans. Yes, yes, the 
trouble was he had been wasteful and honest. He 
discussed the matter with that faithful friend and 
confidant, Baptiste, his yellow body-servant. They 
concluded that, papa’s patience and tante's pin- 
money having been gnawed away quite to the rind, 
165 



i66 


OLD CREOLE DA VS 


there were left open only these few easily-enumer- 
ated resorts : to go to work — they shuddered ; 
to join Major Innerarity’s filibustering expedition; 
or else — why not ? — to try some games of confi- 
dence. At twenty-two one must begin to be 
something. Nothing else tempted; could that 
avail? One could but try. It is noble to try; 
and, besides, they were hungry. If one could 
“make the friendship” of some person from the 
country, for instance, with money, not expert at 
cards or dice, but, as one would say, willing to 
learn, one might find cause to say some “ Hail 
Marys.” 

The sun broke through a clearing sky, and Bap- 
tiste pronounced it good for luck. There had 
been a hurricane in the night. The weed-grown 
tile-roofs were still dripping, and from lofty brick 
and low adobe walls a rising steam responded to 
the summer sunlight. Up-street, and across the 
Rue du Canal, one could get glimpses of the gar- 
dens in Faubourg Ste.-Marie standing in silent 
wretchedness, so many tearful Lucretias, tattered 
victims of the storm. Short remnants of the wind 
now and then came down the narrow street in 
erratic puffs heavily laden with odors of broken 
boughs and torn flowers, skimmed the little pools 
of rain-water in the deep ruts of the unpaved 
street, and suddenly went away to nothing, like a 
juggler’s butterflies or a young man’s money. 

It was very picturesque, the Rue Royale. The 
rich and poor met together. The locksmith’s 


••POSSON JONE* 


167 


swinging key creaked next door to the bank; 
across the way, crouching, mendicant-like, in the 
shadow of a great importing-house, was the mud 
laboratory of the mender of broken combs. Light 
balconies overhung the rows of showy shops and 
stores open for trade this Sunday morning, and 
pretty Latin faces of the higher class glanced over 
their savagely-pronged railings upon the passers 
below. At some windows hung lace curtains, flan- 
nel duds at some, and at others only the scraping 
and sighing one-hinged shutter groaning toward 
Paris after its neglectful master. 

M. St.-Ange stood looking up and down the 
street for nearly an hour. But few ladies, only 
the inveterate mass-goers, were out. About the 
entrance of the frequent cafes the masculine gen- 
tility stood leaning on canes, with which now one 
and now another beckoned to Jules, some even 
adding pantomimic hints of the social cup. 

M. St.-Ange remarked to his servant without 
turning his head that somehow he felt sure he 
should soon return those tons that the mulatto 
had lent him. 

“ What will you do with them ? ” 

“Me ! ” said Baptiste, quickly ; “ I will go and 
see the bull-fight in the Place Congo.” 

“ There is to be a bull-fight ? But where is M. 
Cayetano?” 

“ Ah, got all his affairs wet in the tornado. In- 
stead of his circus, they are to have a bull-fight 
— not an ordinary bull-fight with sick horses. 


i68 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


but a buffalo-and-tiger fight. I would not miss 
it”— 

Two or three persons ran to the opposite corner, 
and commenced striking at something with their 
canes. Others followed. Can M. St.-Ange and 
servant, who hasten forward — can the Creoles, 
Cubans, Spaniards, St. Domingo refugees, and 
other loungers — can they hope it is a fight ? 
They hurry forward. Is a man in a fit? The 
crowd pours in from the side-streets. Have they 
killed a so-long snake ? Bareheaded shopmen 
leave their wives, who stand upon chairs. The 
crowd huddles and packs. Those on the outside 
make little leaps into the air, trying to be tall. 

“ What is the matter ? ” 

“ Have they caught a real live rat ? ” 

“ Who is hurt? ” asks some one in English. 

** PersomUy' replies a shopkeeper; “a man’s 
hat blow’ in the gutter ; but he has it now. Jules 
pick it. See, that is the man, head and shoulders 
on top the res’.” 

“ He in the homespun ? ” asks a second shop- 
keeper. “ Humph ! an Americain — a West- Flo- 
ridian ; bah ! ” 

“ But wait ; ’st ! he is speaking ; listen ! ” 

“ To who is he speak ? ” 

“Sh-sh-sh! to Jules.” 

“Jules who? ” 

“ Silence, you ! To Jules St.-Ange, what howe 
me a bill since long time. Sh-sh-sh ! ” 

Then the voice was heard. 


• “POSSON JONE' 


169 


Its owner was a man of giant stature, with a 
slight stoop in his shoulders, as if he was making 
a constant, good-natured attempt to accommodate 
himself to ordinary doors and ceilings. His bones 
were those of an ox. His face was marked more 
by weather than age, and his narrow brow was 
bald and smooth. He had instantaneously formed 
an opinion of Jules St.-Ange, and the multitude 
of words, most of them lingual curiosities, with 
which he was rasping the wide-open ears of his 
listeners, signified, in short, that, as sure as his 
name was Parson Jones, the little Creole was a 
“plum gentleman.” 

M. St.-Ange bowed and smiled, and was about 
to call attention, by both gesture and speech, to a 
singular object on top of the still uncovered head, 
when the nervous motion of the A mericain antici- 
pated him, as, throwing up an immense hand, he 
drew down a large roll of bank-notes. The crowd 
laughed, the West-Floridian joining, and began to 
disperse. 

“ Why, that money belongs to Smyrny Church,” 
said the giant. 

“ You are very dengerous to make your money 
expose like that. Misty Posson Jone’,” said St.- 
Ange, counting it with his eyes. 

The countryman gave a start and smile of sur- 
prise. 

“ How d’dyou know my name was Jones ? ” he 
asked ; but, without pausing for the Creole’s an- 
swer, furnished in his reckless way some further 


170 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


specimens of West-Floridian English ; and the 
conciseness with which he presented full intelli- 
gence of his home, family, calling, lodging-house, 
and present and future plans, might have passed 
for consummate art, had it not been the most run- 
wild nature. “And I’ve done been to Mobile, 
you know, on busiw^rjj for Bethesdy Church. It’s 
the on’yest time I ever been from home ; now you 
wouldn’t of believed that, would you ? But I ad- 
mire to have saw you, that’s so. You’ve got to 
come and eat with me. Me and my boy ain’t been 
fed yit. What might one call yo’ name ? Jools ? 
Come on, Jools. Come on. Colossus. That’s my 
niggah — his name’s Colossus of Rhodes. Is that 
yo’ yallah boy, Jools ? Fetch him along. Colossus. 
It seems like a special ^xomdence , — Jools, do you 
believe in a special '^xosidence ? ” 

Jules said he did. 

The new-made friends moved briskly off, fol- 
lowed by Baptiste and a short, square, old negro, 
very black and grotesque, who had introduced 
himself to the mulatto, with many glittering and 
cavernous smiles, as “ d’body-sarvant of d’Rev’n’ 
Mr. Jones.” 

Both pairs enlivened their walk with conversa- 
tion. Parson Jones descanted upon the doctrine 
he had mentioned, as illustrated in the perplexities 
of cotton-growing, and concluded that there would 
always be “ a special ^xovxdence again’ cotton untell 
folks quits a-pressin’ of it and haulin’ of it on Sun- 


FOSS ON JONE' 


171 

Je dis,^^ said St.-Ange, in response, “I thing 
you is juz right. I believe, me, strong-strong in 
the improvidence, yes. You know my papa he 
hown a sugah-plantation, you know. ‘ Jules, me 
son,’ he say one time to me, ‘ I goin’ to make one 
baril sugah to fedge the moze high price in New 
Orleanz.’ Well, he take his bez baril sugah — I 
nevah see a so careful man like me papa always 
to make a so beautiful sugah et sirop. ‘Jules, go 
at Father Pierre an’ ged this lill pitcher fill with 
holy-water, an’ tell him sen’ his tin bucket, and I 
will make it fill with quitte.'' I ged the holy- 
water; my papa sprinkle it over the baril, an’ 
make one cross on the ’ead of the baril.” 

“ Why, Jools,” said Parson Jones, “that didn’t 
do no good.” 

“ Din do no good ! Id broughd the so great 
value ! You can strike me dead if thad baril sugah 
din fedge the more high cost than any other in the 
city. Parce-que, the man what buy that baril sugah 
he make a mistake of one hundred pound ” — fall- 
ing back — “ Mais certainlee ! ” 

“ And you think that was growin’ out of the 
holy- water ? ” asked the parson. 

“ MaiSi what could make it else ? Id could not 
be the quitte^ because my papa keep the bucket, 
an’ forget to sen’ the quitte to Father Pierre.” 

Parson Jones was disappointed. 

“Well, now, Jools, you know, I don’t think 
that was right. I reckon you must be a plum 
Catholic.” 


172 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


M. St.-Ange shrugged. He would not deny his 
faith. 

“ I am a Catholique^ mats'*' — brightening as he 
hoped to recommend himself anew — not a good 
one.” 

“Well, you know,” said Jones — “where’s Co- 
lossus ? Oh ! all right. Colossus strayed off a 
minute in Mobile, and I plum lost him for two 
days. Here’s the place ; come in. Colossus and 
this boy can go to the kitchen. — Now, Colossus, 
what air you a-beckonin’ at me faw ? ” 

He let his servant draw him aside and address 
him in a whisper. 

“ Oh, go ’way ! ” said the parson with a jerk. 
“ Who’s goin’ to throw me ? What ? Speak 
louder. Why, Colossus, you shayn’t talk so, saw. 
’Pon my soul, you’re the mightiest fool I ever 
taken up with. Jest you go down that alley-way 
with this yalla boy, and don’t show yo’ face untell 
yo’ called ! ” 

The negro begged ; the master wrathily insisted. 

“ Colossus, will you do ez I tell you, or shell I 
hev’ to strike you, saw ? ” 

“O Mahs Jimmy, I — I’s gwine; but” — he 
ventured nearer — “don’t on no account drink 
nothin’, Mahs Jimmy.” 

Such was the negro’s earnestness that he put 
one foot in the gutter, and fell heavily against his 
master. The parson threw him off angrily. 

“ Thar, now ! Why, Colossus, you most of 
been dosted with sumthin’ ; yo’ plum crazy. — 


“ POSSON JONE ' ” 


173 


Humph, come on, Jools, let’s eat! Humph! to 
tell me that when I never taken a drop, exceptin’ 
for chills, in my life — which he knows so as well 
as me ! ” 

The two masters began to ascend a stair. 

** MaiSf he is a sassy; I would sell him, me,” 
said the young Creole. 

“ No, I wouldn’t do that,” replied the parson ; 
“ though there is people in Bethesdy who says he 
is a rascal. He’s a powerful smart fool. Why, 
that boy’s got money, Jools; more money than 
religion, I reckon. I’m shore he fallen into 
mighty bad company ” — they passed beyond ear- 
shot. 

Baptiste and Colossus, instead of going to the 
tavern kitchen, passed to the next door and en- 
tered the dark rear corner of a low grocery, where, 
the law notwithstanding, liquor was covertly sold 
to slaves. There, in the quiet company of Bap- 
tiste and the grocer, the colloquial powers of Co- 
lossus, which were simply prodigious, began very 
soon to show themselves. 

“ For whilst,” said he, “ Mahs Jimmy has eddi- 
cation, you know — whilst he has eddication, I has 
’scretion. He has eddication and I has ’scretion, 
an’ so we gits along.” 

He drew a black bottle down the counter, and, 
laying half his length upon the damp board, con- 
tinued : 

“ As a p’inciple I discredits de imbimin’ of awjus 
liquors. De imbimin’ of awjus liquors, de wiolu- 


174 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


tion of de Sabbaf, de playin’ of de fiddle, and de 
usin’ of by-words, dey is de fo’ sins of de con- 
science ; an’ if any man sin de fo’ sins of de con- 
science, de debble done sharp his fork fo’ dat man. 
— Ain’t that so, boss ? ” 

The grocer was sure it was so. 

“ Neberdeless, mind you” — here the orator 
brimmed his glass from the bottle and swallowed 
the contents with a dry eye — “ mind you, a roy- 
tious man, sech as ministers of de gospel and dere 
body-sarvants, can take a leeile for de weak stom- 
ach.” 

But the fascinations of Colossus’s eloquence 
must not mislead us ; this is the story of a true 
Christian ; to wit. Parson Jones. 

The parson and his new friend ate. But the 
coffee M. St.-Ange declared he could not touch; 
it was too wretchedly bad. At the French Mar- 
ket, near by, there was some noble coffee. This, 
however, would have to be bought, and Parson 
Jones had scruples. 

“ You see, Jools, every man has his conscience 
to guide him, which it does so in ” — 

“Oh, yes!” cried St.-Ange, ‘‘conscien’; thad 
is the bez, Posson Jone’. Certainlee ! I am a 
Catholique, you is a schismatique ; you thing it is 
wrong to dring some coffee — well, then, it is 
wrong; you thing it is wrong to make the sugah 
to ged the so large price — well, then, it is wrong ; 
I thing it is right — well, then, it is right; it is all 
’abit ; c'est tout. What a man thing is right, is 


••POSSON JONE'" 


*75 


right ; ’tis all ’abit. A man muz nod go again’ 
his conscien’. My faith ! do you thing I would 
go again’ my conscien’ ? Mais allons, led us go 
and ged some coffee.” 

“ Jools.” 

“ W’at?” 

“Jools, it ain’t the drinkin’ of coffee, but the 
buyin’ of it on a Sabbath. You must really ex- 
cuse me, Jools, it’s again’ conscience, you know.” 

“Ah!” said St. - Ange, “ very true. For 
you it would be a sin, J7iais for me it is only ’abit. 
Rilligion is a very strange ; I know a man one 
time, he thing it was wrong to go to cock-fight 
Sunday evening. I thing it is all ’abit. Mais, 
come, Posson Jone’; I have got one friend, 
Miguel; led us go at his house and ged some 
coffee. Come ; Miguel have no familie ; only him 
and Joe — always like to see friend; allons, led 
us come yonder.” 

“ Why, Jools, my dear friend, you know,” said the 
shamefaced parson, “ I never visit on Sundays.” 

“ Never w’at ? ” asked the astounded Creole. 

“No,” said Jones, smiling awkwardly. 

“ Never visite ? ” 

“ Exceptin’ sometimes amongst church-mem- 
bers,” said Parson Jones. 

“ said the seductive St. -Ange, “ Miguel 

and Joe is church-member’ — certainlee ! They 
love to talk about rilligion. Come at Miguel and 
talk about some rilligion. I am nearly expire for 
me coffee.” 


176 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


Parson Jones took his hat from beneath his chair 
and rose up. 

“ Jools,” said the weak giant, “ I ought to be 
in church right now.” 

“ MaiSi the church is right yonder at Miguel, 
yes. Ah! ” continued St.-Ange, as they de- 
scended the stairs, “ I thing every man muz have 
the rilligion he like the bez — me, I like the Caiho- 
lique rilligion the bez — for me it is the bez. Every 
man will sure go to heaven if he likes his rilligion 
the bez.” 

“Jools,” said the West-Floridian, laying his 
great hand tenderly upon the Creole’s shoulder, 
as they stepped out upon the banquette ^ “ do you 
think you have any shore hopes of heaven ? ” 

“ Yass ! ” replied St.-Ange ; “ I am sure-sure. 
I thing everybody will go to heaven. I thing 
you will go, et I thing Miguel will go, et Joe — 
everybody, I thing — mais^ hof course, not if they 
not have been christen’. Even I thing some nig- 
gers will go.” 

“ Jools,” said the parson, stopping in his walk 
— “Jools, I donH want to lose my niggah.” 

“You will not loose him. With Baptiste he 
cannot ged loose.” 

But Colossus’s master was not re-assured. 

“Now,” said he, still tarrying, “this is jest the 
way; had I of gone to church” — 

“ Posson Jone’,” said Jules. 

“ What?” 

“ I tell you. We goin’ to church ! ” 


**POSSON JONE'" 


177 


“ Will you ? ” asked Jones, joyously. 

Allans y come along,” said Jules, taking his 
elbow. 

They walked down the Rue Chartres, passed 
several corners, and by and by turned into a cross 
street. The parson stopped an instant as they 
were turning, and looked back up the street. 

“ W'at you lookin’ ? ” asked his companion. 

“ I thought I saw Colossus,” answered the par- 
son, with an anxious face ; “ I reckon ’twa’n’t him, 
though.” And they went on. 

The street they now entered was a very quiet 
one. The eye of any chance passer would have 
been at once drawn to a broad, heavy, white brick 
edifice on the lower side of the way, with a flag- 
pole standing out like a bowsprit from one of its 
great windows, and a pair of lamps hanging be- 
fore a large closed entrance. It was a theatre, 
honey-combed with gambling-dens. At this morn- 
ing hour all was still, and the only sign of life was 
a knot of little barefoot girls gathered within its 
narrow shade, and each carrying an infant relative. 
Into this place the parson and M. St.-Ange en- 
tered, the little nurses jumping up from the sills 
to let them pass in. 

A half-hour may have passed. At the end of 
that time the whole juvenile company were laying 
alternate eyes and ears to the chinks, to gather 
what they could of an interesting quarrel going 
on within. 

“ I did not, saw ! I given you no cause of 


178 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


offence, saw! It’s not so, saw! Mister Jools 
simply mistaken the house, thinkin’ it was a Sab- 
bath-school ! No such thing, saw ; I ainH bound 
to bet ! Yes, I kin git out ! Yes, without bettin’! 
I hev a right to my opinion ; I reckon I’m a white 
man^ saw! No saw! I on’y said I didn’t think 
you could get the game on them cards. ’Sno such 
thing, saw ! I do not know how to play ! I 
wouldn’t hev a rascal’s money ef I should win it ! 
Shoot, ef you dare! You can kill me, but you 
can’t scare me ! No, I shayn’tbet! I’ll die first ! 
Yes, saw ; Mr. Jools can bet for me if he admires 
to; I ain’t his mostah.” 

Here the speaker seemed to direct his words to 
St.-Ange. 

“ Saw, I don’t understand you, saw. I never 
said I’d loan you money to bet on me. I didn’t 
suspicion this from you, saw. No, I won’t take 
any more lemonade; it’s the most notorious stuff 
I ever drank, saw ! ” 

M. St.-Ange’s replies were in falsetto and not 
without effect ; for presently the parson’s indigna- 
tion and anger began to melt. “ Don’t ask me, 
Jools, I can’t help you. It’s no use ; it’s a matter 
of conscience with me, Jools.” 

Mais oui ! ’tis a matt’ of conscien’ wid me, 
the same.” 

“ But, Jools, the money’s none o’ mine, nohow ; 
it belongs to Smyrny, you know.” 

“ If I could make jus one bet,” said the persuas- 
ive St.-Ange, “ I would leave this place, fas’-fas’. 


'^POSSON JONE'*' 


179 


yes. If I had thing — niais I did not soupspicion 
this from you, Posson Jone’ ” — 

“ Don’t, Jools, don’t ! ” 

“No! Posson Jone’.” 

“You’re bound to win ? ” said the parson, wa- 
vering. 

Mais certainement ! But it is not to win that 
I want; ’tis me conscien’ — me honor ! ” 

“ Well, Jools, I hope I’m not a-doin’ no wrong. 
I’ll loan you some of this money if you say you’ll 
come right out ’thout takin your winnin’s.” 

All was still. The peeping children could see 
the parson as he lifted his hand to his breast- 
pocket. There it paused a moment in bewilder- 
ment, then plunged to the bottom. It came back 
empty, and fell lifelessly at his side. His head 
dropped upon his breast, his eyes were for a mo- 
ment closed, his broad palms were lifted and 
pressed against his forehead, a tremor seized him, 
and he fell all in a lump to the floor. The children 
ran off with their infant-loads, leaving Jules St.- 
Ange swearing by all his deceased relatives, first 
to Miguel and Joe, and then to the lifted parson, 
that he did not know what had become of the 
money “except if” the black man had got it. 

In the rear of ancient New Orleans, beyond the 
sites of the old rampart, a trio of Spanish forts, 
where the town has since sprung up and grown 
old, green with all the luxuriance of the wild Cre- 
ole summer, lay the Congo Plains. Here stretched 


i8o 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


the canvas of the historic Cayetano, who Sunday 
after Sunday sowed the sawdust for his circus- 
ring. 

But to-day the great showman had fallen short 
of his printed promise. The hurricane had come 
by night, and with one fell swash had made an 
irretrievable sop of everything. The circus trailed 
away its bedraggled magnificence, and the ring 
was cleared for the bull. 

Then the sun seemed to come out and work for 
the people. “See,” said the Spaniards, looking 
up at the glorious sky with its great, white fleets 
drawn off upon the horizon — “ see — heaven smiles 
upon the bull-fight! ” 

In the high upper seats of the rude amphitheatre 
sat the gayly-decked wives and daughters of the 
Gascons, from the mitairies along the Ridge, and 
the chattering Spanish women of the Market, their 
shining hair unbonneted to the sun. Next below 
were their husbands and lovers in Sunday blouses, 
milkmen, butchers, bakers, black-bearded fisher- 
men, Sicilian fruiterers, swarthy Portuguese sail- 
ors, in little woollen caps, and strangers of the 
graver sort ; mariners of England, Germany, and 
Holland. The lowest seats were full of trappers, 
smugglers, Canadian voyageurs^ drinking and sing- 
ing; Americams, too — more’s the shame — from 
the upper rivers — who will not keep their seats 
— who ply the bottle, and who will get home by 
and by and tell how wicked Sodom is ; broad- 
brimmed, silver-braided Mexicans, too, with their 


"POSSON JONE’ ” 


i8i 

copper cheeks and bat’s eyes, and their tinkling 
spurred heels. Yonder, in that quieter section, 
are the quadroon women in their black lace shawls 
— and there is Baptiste ; and below them are the 
turbaned black women, and there is — but he van- 
ishes — Colossus. 

The afternoon is advancing, yet the sport, though 
loudly demanded, does not begin. The A mericains 
grow derisive and find pastime in gibes and rail- 
lery. They mock the various Latins with their 
national inflections, and answer their scowls with 
laughter. Some of the more aggressive shout 
pretty French greetings to the women of Gascony, 
and one bargeman, amid peals of applause, stands 
on a seat and hurls a kiss to the quadroons. The 
mariners of England, Germany, and Holland, as 
spectators, like the fun, while the Spaniards look 
back and cast defiant imprecations upon their per- 
secutors. Some Gascons, with timely caution, 
pick their women out and depart, running a ter- 
rible fire of gallantries. 

In hope of truce, a new call is raised for the 
bull : « The bull, the bull !— hush ! ” 

In a tier near the ground a man is standing and 
calling — standing head and shoulders above the 
rest — calling in the Amencaine tongue. Another 
man, big and red, named Joe, and a handsome 
little Creole, in elegant dress and full of laughter, 
wish to stop him, but the flat-boatmen, ha-ha-ing 
and cheering, will not suffer it. Ah, through some 
shameful knavery of the men, into whose hands 


i 82 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


he has fallen, he is drunk ! Even the women can 
see that ; and now he throws his arms wildly and 
raises his voice until the whole great circle hears 
it. He is preaching ! 

Ah ! kind Lord, for a special providence now ! 
The men of his own nation — men from the land 
of the open English Bible and temperance cup and 
song are cheering him on to mad disgrace. And 
now another call for the appointed sport is drowned 
by the flat-boatmen singing the ancient tune of 
Mear. You can hear the words — 

“ Old Grimes is dead, that good old soul ” 

— from ribald lips and throats turned brazen with 
laughter, from singers who toss their hats aloft 
and roll in their seats; the chorus swells to the 
accompaniment of a thousand brogans — 

“ He used to wear an old gray coat 
All buttoned down before.” 

A ribboned man in the arena is trying to be 
heard, and the Latins' raise one mighty cry for 
silence. The big red man gets a hand over the 
parson’s mouth, and the ribboned man seizes his 
moment. 

“ They have been endeavoring for hours,” he 
says, “ to draw the terrible animals from their 
dens, but such is their strength and fierceness, 
that 

His voice is drowned. Enough has been heard 
to warrant the inference that the beasts cannot be 


•*POSSON JONE' 


183 

whipped out of the storm-drenched cages to which 
menagerie-life and long starvation have attached 
them, and from the roar of indignation the man 
of ribbons flies. The noise increases. Men are 
standing up by hundreds, and women are implor- 
ing to be let out of the turmoil. All at once, like 
the bursting of a dam, the whole mass pours 
down into the ring. They sweep across the arena 
and over the showman’s barriers. Miguel gets 
a frightful trampling. Who cares for gates or 
doors ? They tear the beasts’ houses bar from 
bar, and, laying hold of the gaunt buffalo, drag 
him forth by feet, ears, and tail ; and in the midst 
of the melecy still head and shoulders above all, 
wilder, with the cup of the wicked, than any beast, 
is the man of God from the Florida parishes ! 

In his arms he bore — and all the people shouted 
at once when they saw it — the tiger. He had 
lifted it high up with its back to his breast, his 
arms clasped under its shoulders ; the wretched 
brute had curled up caterpillar-wise, with its long 
tail against its belly, and through its filed teeth 
grinned a fixed and impotent wrath. And Parson 
Jones was shouting : 

“ The tiger and the buffler shell lay down to- 
gether ! You dah to say they shayn’t and I’ll 
comb you with this varmint from head to foot ! 
The tiger and the buffler shell lay down together. 
They shell! Now, you, Joe! Behold! I am 
here to see it done. The lion and the buffler shell 
lay down together ! ” 


184 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


Mouthing these words again and again, the par- 
son forced his way through the surge in the wake 
of the buffalo. This creature the Latins had se- 
cured by a lariat over his head, and were dragging 
across the old rampart and into a street of the city. 

The northern races were trying to prevent, and 
there was pommelling and knocking down, curs- 
ing and knife-drawing, until Jules St.-Ange was 
quite carried away with the fun, laughed, clapped 
his hands, and swore with delight, and ever kept 
close to the gallant parson. 

Joe, contrariwise, counted all this child’s-play 
an interruption. He had come to find Colossus 
and the money. In an unlucky moment he made 
bold to lay hold of the parson, but a piece of the 
broken barriers in the hands of the flat-boatman 
felled him to the sod, the terrible crowd swept 
over him, the lariat was cut and the giant parson 
hurled the tiger upon the buffalo’s back. In an- 
other instant both brutes were dead at the hands 
of the mob; Jones was lifted from his feet, and 
prating of Scripture and the millennium, of Paul 
at Ephesus and Daniel in the “ buffler’s ” den, 
was borne aloft upon the shoulders of the huzza- 
ing Americains. Half an hour later he was sleep- 
ing heavily on the floor of a cell in the calaboza. 

When Parson Jones awoke, a bell was some- 
where tolling for midnight. Somebody was at 
the door of his cell with a key. The lock grated, 
the door swung, the turnkey looked in and stepped 
back, and a ray of moonlight fell upon M. Jules 


‘‘POSSON- JONE' 


185 


St.-Ange. The prisoner sat upon the empty 
shackles and ring-bolt in the centre of the floor. 

“ Misty Posson Jone’,” said the visitor, softly. 

“ O Jools ! ” 

“ Mais, w’at de matter, Posson Jone’ ? ” 

“ My sins, Jools, my sins ! ” 

“Ah! Posson Jone’, is that something to cry, 
because a man get sometime a litt’ bit intoxicate ? 
Mats, if a man keep all the time intoxicate, I think 
that is again’ the conscien’.” 

“Jools, Jools, your eyes is darkened — oh! 
Jools, where’s my pore old niggah?” 

“Posson Jone’, never min’; he is wid Bap- 
tiste.” 

“Where?” 

“ I don’ know w’ere — mais he is wid Baptiste. 
Baptiste is a beautiful to take care of somebody.” 

“ Is he as good as you, Jools ? ” asked Parson 
Jones, sincerely. 

Jules was slightly staggered. 

“You know, Posson Jone’, you know, a nigger 
cannot be good as a w’ite man — mais Baptiste is 
a good nigger.” 

The parson moaned and dropped his chin into 
his hands. 

“ I was to of left for home to-morrow, sun-up, 
on the Isabella schooner. Pore Smyrny ! ” He 
deeply sighed. 

“ Posson Jone’,” said Jules, leaning against the 
wall and smiling, “ I swear you is the moz funny 
man I ever see. If I was you I would say, me. 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


1 86 

‘ Ah ! ’ow I am lucky ! the money I los’, it was 
not mine, anyhow ! ’ My faith ! shall a man make 
hisse’f to be the more sorry because the money 
he los’ is not his ? Me, I would say, ‘ it is a spe- 
cious providence.’ 

“ Ah ! Misty Posson Jone’,” he continued, 
“ you make a so droll sermon ad the bull-ring. 
Ha ! ha ! I swear I thing you can make money to 
preach thad sermon many time ad the theatre St. 
Philippe. Hah ! you is the moz brave dat I never 
see, mais ad the same time the moz rilligious man. 
Where I’m goin’ to fin’ one priest to make like 
dat ? Mais, why you can’t cheer up an’ be ’appy ? 
Me, if I should be miserabl’ like that I would kill 
meself.” 

The countryman only shook his head. 

Bien, Posson Jone’, I have the so good news 
for you.” 

The prisoner looked up with eager inquiry. 

“ Las’ evening when they lock’ you, I come 
right off at M. De Blanc’s house to get you let out 
of de calaboose ; M. De Blanc he is the judge. 
So soon I was entering — ‘ Ah ! J ules, me boy, 
juz the man to make complete the game ! ’ Posson 
Jone’, it was a specious providence! I win in 
free hours more dan six hundred dollah ! Look.” 
He produced a mass of bank-notes, bans, and due- 
bills. 

“ And you got the pass ? ” asked the parson, 
regarding the money with a sadness incomprehen- 
sible to Jules. 


“ POSSON JONE ’ ” ■ 187 

“ It is here; it take the effect so soon the day- 
light.” 

“ Jools, my friend, your kindness is in vain.” 

The Creole’s face became a perfect blank. 

“ Because,” said the parson, “ for two reasons : 
firstly, I have broken the laws, and ought to stand 
the penalty ; and secondly — you must really ex- 
cuse me, Jools, you know, but the pass has been 
got onfairly, I’m afeerd. You told the judge I 
was innocent ; and in neither case it don’t become 
a Christian (which I hope I can still say I am one) 
to * do evil that good may come. ’ I muss stay. ” 

M. St.-Ange stood up aghast, and for a moment 
speechless, at this exhibition of moral heroism ; 
but an artifice was presently hit upon. Mais, 
Posson Jone ’ ! ” — in his old falsetto — “ de order 
— you cannot read it, it is in French — compel 
you to go hout, sir ! ” 

“ Is that so ? ” cried the parson, bounding up 
with radiant face — “is that so, Jools?” 

The young man nodded, smiling; but, though 
he smiled, the fountain of his tenderness was 
opened. He made the sign of the cross as the 
parson knelt in prayer, and even whispered “ Hail 
Mary,” etc., quite through, twice over. 

Morning broke in summer glory upon a cluster 
of villas behind the city, nestled under live-oaks 
and magnolias on the banks of a deep bayou, and 
known as Suburb St. Jean. 

With the first beam came the West-Floridian 
and the Creole out upon the bank below the vil- 


i88 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


lage. Upon the parson’s arm hung a pair of an- 
tique saddle-bags. Baptiste limped wearily be- 
hind; both his eyes were encircled with broad, 
blue rings, and one cheek-bone bore the official 
impress of every knuckle of Colossus’s left hand. 
The “beautiful to take care of somebody” had 
lost his charge. At mention of the negro he be- 
came wild, and, half in English, half in the “ gum- 
bo ” dialect, said murderous things. Intimidated 
by Jules to calmness, he became able to speak 
confidently on one point; he could, would, and 
did swear that Colossus had gone home to the 
Florida parishes ; he was almost certain ; in fact, 
he thought so. 

There was a clicking of pulleys as the three ap- 
peared upon the bayou’s margin, and Baptiste 
pointed out, in the deep shadow of a great oak, 
the Isabella, moored among the bulrushes, and 
just spreading her sails for departure. Moving 
down to where she lay, the parson and his friend 
paused on the bank, loath to say farewell. 

“ O Jools ! ” said the parson, “supposin’ Colos- 
sus ain’t gone home ! O Jools, if you’ll look him 
out for me. I’ll never forget you — I’ll never for- 
get you, nohow, Jools. No, Jools, I never will 
believe he taken that money. Yes, I know all 
niggahs will steal” — he set foot upon the gang- 
plank — “but Colossus wouldn’t steal from me. 
Good-by.” 

“ Misty Posson Jone’,” said St.-Ange, putting 
his hand on the parson’s arm with genuine affec- 


^‘POSSON JONE' ” 


189 


tion, “hoi* on. You see dis money — w’at I win 
las’ night? Well, I win’ it by a specious provi- 
dence, ain’t it ? ” 

“There’s no tellin’,” said the humbled Jones. 
“ Providence 


‘ Moves in a mysterious way 
His wonders to perform’.” 

“ Ah ! ” cried the Creole, “ c^est very true. I 
ged this, money in the mysterieuze way. MaiSy 
if I keep dis money, you know where it goin’ be 
to-night ? ” 

“ I really can’t say,” replied the parson. 

“ Coin’ to the dev’,” said the sweetly-smiling 
young man. 

The schooner-captain, leaning against the 
shrouds, and even Baptiste, laughed outright. 

“ O Jools, you mustn’t ! ” 

“Well, den, w’at I shall do wid 

“ Any thing ! ” answered the parson ; “ better 
donate it away to some poor man ” — 

“Ah! Misty Posson Jone’, dat is w’at I want. 
You los’ five hondred dollar’ — ’twas me fault.” 

“ No, it wa’n’t, Jools.” 

“ Maisy it was ! ” 

“ No 1 ” 

“ It was me fault I I swear it was me* fault ! 
Maisy here is five hondred dollar’ ; I wish you 
shall take it. Here! I don’t got no use for 
money. — Oh, my faith! Posson Jone’, you must 
not begin to cry some more.” 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


190 

Parson Jones was choked with tears. When 
he found voice he said : 

“ O Jools, Jools, Jools ! niy pore, noble, dear, 
misguidened friend ! ef you hed of hed a Chris- 
tian raisin’ ! May the Lord show you your errors 
better’n I kin, and bless you for your good inten- 
tions — oh, no I I cayn’t touch that money with a 
ten-foot pole; it wa’n’t rightly got; you must 
really excuse me, my dear friend, but I cayn’t 
touch it.” 

St.-Ange was petrified. 

“ Good-by, dear Jools,” continued the parson. 
“ I’m in the Lord’s haynds, and he’s very merci- 
ful, which I hope and trust you’ll find it out. 
Good-by! ” — the schooner swung slowly off be- 
fore the breeze — “good-by! ” 

St.-Ange roused himself. 

“ Posson Jone’ ! make me hany’ow dis promise : 
you never, never, never will come back to New 
Orleans.” 

“Ah, Jools, the Lord willin’. I’ll never leave 
home again ! ” 

“All right! ” cried the Creole; “I thing he’s 
willin’. Adieu, Posson Jone’. My faith’ ! you 
are the so fighting an’ moz rilligious man as I 
never saw ! Adieu ! Adieu ! ” 

Baptiste uttered a cry and presently ran by his 
master toward the sdhooner, his hands full of 
clods. 

St.-Ange looked just in time to see the sable 
form of Colossus of Rhodes emerge from the ves- 


**POSSON JONE’" 


191 


sel’s hold, and the pastor of Smyrna and Bethesda 
seize him in his embrace. 

“ O Colossus ! you outlandish old nigger ! 
Thank the Lord ! Thank the Lord ! ” 

The little Creole almost wept. He ran down 
the tow-path, laughing and swearing, and making 
confused allusion to the entire personnel and fur- 
niture of the lower regions. 

By odd fortune, at the moment that St.-Ange 
further demonstrated his delight by tripping his 
mulatto into a bog, the schooner came brushing 
along the reedy bank with a graceful curve, the 
sails flapped, and the crew fell to poling her 
slowly along. 

Parson Jones was on the deck, kneeling once 
more in prayer. His hat had fallen before him ; 
behind him knelt his slave. In thundering tones 
he was confessing himself “ a plum fool,” from 
whom “the conceit had been jolted out,” and 
who had been made to see that even his “ nigger 
had the longest head of the two.” 

Colossus clasped his hands and groaned. 

The parson prayed for a contrite heart. 

“ Oh, yes ! ” cried Colossus. 

The master acknowledged countless mercies. 

“ Dat’s so ! ” cried the slave. 

The master prayed that they might still be 
“piled on.” 

“ Glory ! ” cried the black man, clapping his 
hands ; “ pile on ! ” 

“ An’ now,” continued the parson, “ bring this 


192 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


pore, backslidin’ jackace of a parson and this pore 
ole fool nigger back to thar home in peace ! ” 

“Pray fo’ de money! ” called Colossus.” 

But the parson prayed for Jules. 

Pray fo’ de mmey / ” repeated the negro. 

And oh, give thy servant back that there lost 
money! ” 

Colossus rose stealthily, and tiptoed by his still 
shouting master. St. - Ange, the captain, the crew, 
gazed in silent wonder at the strategist. Pausing 
but an instant over the master’s hat to grin an 
acknowledgment of his beholders’ speechless in- 
terest, he softly placed in it the faithfully-mourned 
and hones tly-prayed-for Smyrna fund; then, sa- 
luted by the gesticulative, silent applause of St.- 
Ange and the schooner-men, he resumed his first 
attitude behind his roaring master. 

“ Amen ! ” cried Colossus, meaning to bring 
him to a close. 

“ On worthy though I be ” — cried Jones. 

**Amen/^^ reiterated the negro. 

“ A-a-amen ! ” said Parson Jones. 

He rose to his feet, and, stooping to take up his 
hat, beheld the well-known roll. As one stunned 
he gazed for a moment upon his slave, who still 
knelt with clasped hands and rolling eyeballs; 
but when he became aware of the laughter and 
cheers that greeted him from both deck and shore, 
he lifted eyes and hands to heaven, and cried like 
the veriest babe. And when he looked at the roll 
again, and hugged and kissed it, St. -Ange tried to 


•‘POSSON JONE' ” 


193 


raise a second shout, but choked, and the crew 
fell to their poles. 

And now up runs Baptiste, covered with slime, 
and prepares to cast his projectiles. The first one 
fell wide of the mark; the schooner swung round 
into a long reach of water, where the breeze was 
in her favor ; another shout of laughter drowned 
the maledictions of the muddy man; the sails 
filled; Colossus of Rhodes, smiling and bowing 
as hero of the moment, ducked as the main boom 
swept round, and the schooner, leaning slightly to 
the pleasant influence, rustled a moment over the 
bulrushes, and then sped far away down the rip- 
pling bayou. 

M. Jules St.-Ange stood long, gazing at the re- 
ceding vessel as it now disappeared, now re-ap- 
peared beyond the tops of the high undergrowth ; 
but, when an arm of the forest hid it finally from 
sight, he turned townward, followed by that 
fagged-out spaniel, his servant, saying, as he 
turned, “ Baptiste.” 

Michi? ” 

“ You know w’at I goin’ do wid dis money ? ” 

“ Non^ sieiir.’’’' 

“ Well, you can strike me dead if I don’t goin’ 
to pay hall my debts ! Allans ! ” 

He began a merry little song to the effect that 
his sweetheart was a wine-bottle, and master and 
man, leaving care behind, returned to the pictu- 
resque Rue Royale. The ways of Providence are 
indeed strange. In all Parson Jones’s after-life. 


194 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


amid the many painful reminiscences of his visit 
to the City of the Plain, the sweet knowledge was 
withheld from him that by the light of the Chris- 
tian virtue that shone from him even in his great 
fall, Jules St.-Ange arose, and went to his father 
an honest man. 




JEAN-AH POQUELIN 




JEAN-AH POQUELIN 


N the first decade of the present cen- 
tury, when the newly established 
American Government was the most 
hateful thing in Louisiana — when the 
Creoles were still kicking at such vile innovations 
as the trial by jury, American dances, anti-smug- 
gling laws, and the printing of the Governor’s 
proclamation in English — when the Anglo-Amer- 
ican flood that was presently to burst in a crevasse 
of immigration upon the delta had thus far been 
felt only as slippery seepage which made the Cre- 
ole tremble for his footing — there stood, a short 
distance above what is now Canal Street, and con- 
siderably back from the line of villas which fringed 
the river-bank on Tchoupitoulas Road, an old colo- 
nial plantation-house half in ruin. 

It stood aloof from civilization, the tracts that 
had once been its indigo fields given over to their 
first noxious wildness, and grown up into one of 
the horridest marshes within a circuit of fifty miles. 

197 





198 


OLD' CREOLE DA YS 


The house was of heavy cypress, lifted up on 
pillars, grim, solid, and spiritless, its massive build 
a strong reminder of days still earlier, when every 
man had been his own peace officer and the insur- 
rection of the blacks a daily contingency. Its dark, 
weather-beaten roof and sides were hoisted up 
above the jungly plain in a distracted way, like a 
gigantic ammunition-wagon stuck in the mud and 
abandoned by some retreating army. Around it 
was a dense growth of low water willows, with 
half a hundred sorts of thorny or fetid bushes, 
savage strangers alike to the “ language of flow- 
ers ” and to the botanist’s Greek. They were 
hung with countless strands of discolored and 
prickly smilax, and the impassable mud below 
bristled with chevaux de /rise of the dwarf pal- 
metto. Two lone forest-trees, dead cypresses, 
stood in the centre of the marsh, dotted with roost- 
ing vultures. The shallow strips of water were 
hid by myriads of aquatic plants, under whose 
coarse and spiritless flowers, could one have seen 
it, was a harbor of reptiles, great and small, to 
make one shudder to the end of his days. 

The house was on a slightly raised spot, the 
levee of a draining canal. The waters of this canal 
did not run ; they crawled, and were full of big, 
ravening fish and alligators, that held it against 
all comers. 

Such was the home of old Jean Marie Poquelin, 
once an opulent indigo planter, standing high in 
the esteem of his small, proud circle of exclusively 


JEAN- AH POQUELIN 


199 


male acquaintances in the old city ; now a hermit, 
alike shunned by and shunning all who had ever 
known him. “ The last of his line,” said the gos- 
sips. His father lies under the floor of the St. 
Louis Cathedral, with the wife of his youth on one 
side, and the wife of his old age on the other. 
Old Jean visits the spot daily. His half-brother — 
alas ! there was a mystery; no one knew what had 
become of the gentle, young half-brother, more 
than thirty years his junior, whom once he seemed 
so fondly to love, but who, seven years ago, had 
disappeared suddenly, once for all, and left no clew 
of his fate. 

They had seemed to live so happily in each 
other’s love. No father, mother, wife to either, 
no kindred upon earth. The elder a bold, frank, 
impetuous, chivalric adventurer ; the younger a 
gentle, studious, book- loving recluse; they lived 
upon the ancestral estate like mated birds, one 
always on the wing, the other always in the nest. 

There was no trait in Jean Marie Poquelin, said 
the old gossips, for which he was so well known 
among his few friends as his apparent fondness 
for his “little brother.” “Jacques said this,” 
and “Jacques said that;” he “would leave this 
or that, or any thing to Jacques,” for Jacques was 
a scholar, and “ Jacques was good,” or “ wise,” or 
“just,” or “ far-sighted,” as the nature of the case 
required ; and “he should ask Jacques as soon as 
he got home,” since Jacques was never elsewhere 
to be seen. 


200 


OLD CREOLE DA YS 


It was between the roving character of the one 
brother, and the bookishness of the other, that the 
estate fell into decay. Jean Marie, generous gen- 
tleman, gambled the slaves away one by one, until 
none was left, man or woman, but one old African 
mute. 

The indigo-fields and vats of Louisiana had 
been generally abandoned as unremunerative. 
Certain enterprising men had substituted the cul- 
ture of sugar ; but while the recluse was too apa- 
thetic to take so active a course, the other saw 
larger, and, at that time, equally respectable prof- 
its, first in smuggling, and later in the African 
slave-trade. What harm could he see in it ? The 
whole people said it was vitally necessary, and 
to minister to a vital public necessity, — good 
enough, certainly, and so he laid up many a 
doubloon, that made him none the worse in the 
public regard. 

One day old Jean Mane was about to start upon 
a voyage that was to be longer, much longer, than 
any that he had yet made. Jacques had begged 
him hard for many days not to go, but he laughed 
him off, and finally said, kissing him : 

“ Adieu, Hit frerej^ 

“No,” said Jacques, “I shall go with you.” 

They left the old hulk of a house in the sole care 
of the African mute, and went away to the Guinea 
coast together. 

Two years after, old Poquelin came home with- 
out his vessel. He must have arrived at his 


JEAN-AH POQUELIN 


201 


house by night. No one saw him come. No 
one saw “ his little brother ; ” rumor whispered 
that he, too, had returned, but he had never been 
seen again. 

A dark suspicion fell upon the old slave-trader. 
No matter that the few kept the many reminded 
of the tenderness that had ever marked his bear- 
ing to the missing man. The many shook their 
heads. “You know he has a quick and fearful 
temper ; ” and “ why does he cover his loss with 
mystery? ” “ Grief would out with the truth.” 

“But,” said the charitable few, “look in his 
face ; see that expression of true humanity.” The 
many did look in his face, and, as he looked in 
theirs, he read the silent question : “ Where is thy 
brother Abel? ” The few were silenced, his for- 
mer friends died off, and the name of Jean Marie 
Poquelin became a symbol of witchery, devilish 
crime, and hideous nursery fictions. 

The man and his house were alike shunned. 
The snipe and duck hunters forsook the marsh, 
and the wood-cutters abandoned the canal. Some- 
times the hardier boys who ventured out there 
snake-shooting heard a low thumping of oar-locks 
on the canal. They would look at each other for 
a moment half in consternation, half in glee, then 
rush from their sport in wanton haste to assail 
with their gibes the unoffending, withered old 
man who, in rusty attire, sat in the stern of a 
skiff, rowed homeward by his white-headed Afri- 
can mute. 


202 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


“O Jean-ah Poquelin! O Jean-ah! Jean-ah 
Poquelin I ” 

It was not necessary to utter more than that. 
No hint of wickedness, deformity, or any physical 
or moral demerit; merely the name and tone of 
mockery: Oh, Jean-ah Poquelin!” and while 

they tumbled one over another in their needless 
haste to fly, he would rise carefully from his seat, 
while the aged mute, with downcast face, went on 
rowing, and rolling up his brown fist and extend- 
ing it toward the urchins, would pour forth such 
an unholy broadside of French imprecation and 
invective as would all but craze them with de- 
light. 

Among both blacks and whites the house was 
the object of a thousand superstitions. Every 
midnight, they affirmed, the feu follet came out 
of the marsh and ran in and out of the rooms, 
flashing from window to window. The story of 
some lads, whose word in ordinary statements 
was worthless, was generally credited, that the 
night they camped in the woods, rather than pass 
the place after dark, they saw, about sunset, every 
window blood-red, and on each of the four chim- 
neys an owl sitting, which turned his head three 
times round, and moaned and laughed with a 
human voice. There was a bottomless well, every- 
body professed to know, beneath the sill of the 
big front door under the rotten veranda ; whoever 
set his foot upon that threshold disappeared for- 
ever in the depth below. 


JEAN. AH POQUELIN 


203 


What wonder the marsh grew as wild as Africa! 
Take all the Faubourg Ste. Marie, and half the 
ancient city, you would not find one graceless 
dare-devil reckless enough to pass within a hun- 
dred yards of the house after nightfall. 

The alien races pouring into old New Orleans 
began to find the few streets named for the Bour- 
bon princes too strait for them. The wheel of 
fortune, beginning to whirl, threw them off be- 
yond the ancient corporation lines, and sowed civ- 
ilization and even trade upon the lands of the Gra- 
viers and Girods. Fields became roads, roads 
streets. Everywhere the leveller was peering 
through his glass, rodsmen were whacking their 
way through willow-brakes and rose-hedges, and 
the sweating Irishmen tossed the blue clay up 
with their long-handled shovels. 

“Ha! that is all very well,” quoth the Jean- 
Baptistes, feeling the reproach of an enterprise 
that asked neither co-operation nor advice of them, 
“ but wait till they come yonder to Jean Poquelin’s 
marsh; ha! ha! ha!” The supposed predica- 
ment so delighted them, that they put on a mock 
terror and whirled about in an assumed stampede, 
then caught their clasped hands between their 
knees in excess of mirth, and laughed till the tears 
ran; for whether the street-makers mired in the 
marsh, or contrived to cut through old “ Jean-ah’s ” 
property, either event would be joyful. Mean- 
time a line of tiny rods, with bits of white paper 


204 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


in their split tops, gradually extended its way 
straight through the haunted ground, and across 
the canal diagonally. 

“We shall fill that ditch,” said the men in mud- 
boots, and brushed close along the chained and 
padlocked gate of the haunted mansion. Ah, 
Jean-ah Poquelin, those were not Creole boys, to 
be stampeded with a little hard swearing. 

He went to the Governor. That official scanned 
the odd figure with no slight interest. Jean Po- 
quelin was of short, broad frame, with a bronzed 
leonine face. His brow was ample and deeply 
furrowed. His eye, large and black, was bold 
and open like that of a war-horse, and his jaws 
shut together with the firmness of iron. He was 
dressed in a suit of Attakapas cottonade, and his 
shirt unbuttoned and thrown back from the throat 
and bosom, sailor- wise, showed a herculean breast, 
hard and grizzled. There was no fierceness or 
defiance in his look, no harsh ungentleness, no 
symptom of his unlawful life or violent temper ; 
but rather a peaceful and peaceable fearlessness. 
Across the whole face, not marked in one or an- 
other feature, but as it were laid softly upon the 
countenance like an almost imperceptible veil, was 
the imprint of some great grief. A careless eye 
might easily overlook it, but, once seen, there it 
hung — faint, but unmistakable. 

The Goveinor bowed. 

“ Parlez-vous frangais ? ” asked the figure. 

“ I would rather talk English, if you can do so,” 
said the Governor. 


JEAN-AH POQUELIN 


205 


“ My name, Jean Poquelin.” 

“ How can I serve you, Mr. Poquelin ? ” 

“ My ’ouse is yond’; dans le marais la-basd^ 

The Governor bowed. 

“ Dat marais billong to me.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“Tome; Jean Poquelin ; I hown ’im meself.” 

“ Well, sir ? ” 

'*‘He don’t billong to you; I get him from me 
father. ” 

“ That is perfectly true, Mr. Poquelin, as far as 
I am aware.” 

“ You want to make strit pass yond’ ? ” 

“ I do not know, sir ; it is quite probable ; but 
the city will indemnify you for any loss you may 
suffer — you will get paid, you understand.” 

“Strit can’t pass dare.” 

“You will have to see the municipal authorities 
about that, Mr. Poquelin.” 

A bitter smile came upon the old man’s face. 

“ Pardon^ Monsieur^ you is not le Gouverneur?^' 

“Yes.” 

** MaiSf yes. You har le Gouverneur — yes. 
Veh-well. I come to you. I tell you, strit can’t 
pass at me ’ouse.” 

“ But you will have to see ” — 

“I come to you. You is le Gouverneur. I 
know not the new laws. I ham a Fr-r-rench-a- 
man! Fr-rench-a-man have something aller au 
contraire — he come at his Gouverneur. I comeat 
you. If me not had been bought from me king 
like bossals in the hold time, ze king gof — France 


2o6 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


would-a-show Monsieur le Gouvemeur to take 
care' his men to make strit in right places. Mais, 
I know ; we billong to Monsieur le President. I 
want you do somesin for me, eh ? ” 

“ What is it ? ” asked the patient Governor. 

“ I want you tell Monsieur le Prhident, strit — 
can’t — pass — at — me — ’ouse. ” 

“ Have a chair, Mr. Poquelin ; ” but the old 
man did not stir. The Governor took a quill and 
wrote a line to a city official, introducing Mr. Po- 
quelin, and asking for him every possible courtesy. 
He handed it to him, instructing him where to 
present it. 

“ Mr. Poquelin,” he said, with a conciliatory 
smile, “ tell me, is it your house that our Creole 
citizens tell such odd stories about ? ” 

The old man glared sternly upon the speaker, 
and with immovable features said : 

“ You don’t see me trade some Guinea nigga’ ? ” 
“ Oh, no.” 

“ You don’t see me make some smugglin’ ? ” 
“No, sir; not at all.” 

“ But, I am Jean Marie Poquelin. I mine me 
hown bizniss. Dat all right? Adieu.” 

He put his hat on and withdrew. By and by 
he stood, letter in hand, before the person to 
whom it was addressed. This person employed 
an interpreter. 

“ He says,” said the interpreter to the officer, 
“ he come to make you the fair warning how you 
muz not make the street pas’ at his ’ouse.” 


JEAN-AH POQUELIN 


207 


The officer remarked that “such impudence 
was refreshing ; ” but the experienced interpreter 
translated freely. 

“ He says : ‘ Why you don’t want ? ’ ” said the 
interpreter. 

The old slave-trader answered at some length. 

“ He says,” said the interpreter, again turning 
to the officer, “ the marass is a too unhealth’ for 
peopl’ to live.” 

“ But we expect to drain his old marsh ; it’s not 
going to be a marsh.” 

“ II dW ' — The interpreter explained in French. 

The old man answered tersely. 

“ He says the canal is a private,” said the inter- 
preter. 

“ Oh ! that old ditch ; that’s to be filled up. Tell 
the old man we’re going to fix him up nicely.” 

Translation being duly made, the man in power 
was amused to see a thunder-cloud gathering on 
the old man’s face. 

“ Tell him,” he added, “ by the time we finish, 
there’ll not be a ghost left in his shanty.” 

The interpreter began to translate, but — 

“y’ comprends^ J' comprends^'* said the old 
man, with an impatient gesture, and burst forth, 
pouring curses upon the United States, the Presi- 
dent, the Territory of Orleans, Congress, the Gov- 
ernor and all his subordinates, striding out of the 
apartment as he cursed, while the object of his 
maledictions roared with merriment and rammed 
the floor with his foot. 


2o8 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


“ Why, it will make his old place worth ten dol- 
lars to one,” said the official to the interpreter. 

“ ’Tis not for de worse of de property,” said the 
interpreter. 

“ I should guess not,” said the other, whittling 
his chair, — “ seems to me as if some of these old 
Creoles would liever live in a crawfish hole than 
to have a neighbor.” 

“ You know what make old Jean Poquelin make 
like that? I will tell you. You know ” — 

The interpreter was rolling a cigarette, and 
paused to light his tinder; then, as the smoke 
poured in a thick double stream from his nostrils, 
he said, in a solemn whisper : 

“ He is a witch.” 

“ Ho, ho, ho ! ” laughed the other. 

“You don’t believe it? What you want to 
bet?” cried the interpreter, jerking himself half 
up and thrusting out one arm while he bared it of 
its coat-sleeve with the hand of the other. “ What 
you want to bet ? ” 

“ How do you know ? ” asked the official. 

“ Dass what I goin’ to tell you. You know, 
one evening I was shooting some grosbec. I killed 
^ three ; but I had trouble to find them, it was be- 
coming so dark. When I have them I start’ to come 
home ; then I got to pas’ at Jean Poquelin’s house.” 

“ Ho, ho, ho ! ” laughed the other, throwing his 
leg over the arm of his chair. 

“ Wait,” said the interpreter. “ I come along 
slow, not making some noises; still, still ” — 


JEAN-AH POQUELIN 


209 


“ And scared,” said the smiling one. 

“ MaiSy wait. I get all pas’ the ’ouse. ‘ Ah ! ’ 
I say ; ‘ all right ! ’ Then I see two thing’ before ! 
Hah ! I get as cold and humide, and shake like 
a leaf. You think it was nothing? There I see, 
so plain as can be (though it was making nearly 
dark), I see Jean — Marie — Po-que-lin walkin’ 
right in front, and right there beside of him was 
something like a man — but not a man — white 
like paint ! — I dropp’ on the grass from scared — 
they pass’ ; so sure as I live ’twas the ghos’ of 
Jacques Poquelin, his brother ! ” 

“ Pooh ! ” said the listener. 

“ I’ll put my han’ in the fire,” said the inter- 
preter. 

“ But did you never think,” asked the other, 
“ that that might be Jack Poquelin, as you call 
him, alive and well, and for some cause hid away 
by his brother ? ” 

“ But there har’ no cause ! ” said the other, and 
the entrance of third parties changed the subject. 

Some months passed and the street was opened. 
A canal was first dug through the marsh, the small 
one which passed so close to Jean Poquelin’s 
house was filled, and the street, or rather a sunny 
road, just touched a corner of the old mansion’s 
dooryard. The morass ran dry. Its venomous 
denizens slipped away through the bulrushes ; the 
cattle roaming freely upon its hardened surface 
trampled the superabundant undergrowth. The 
bellowing frogs croaked to westward. Lilies and 


210 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


the flower-de-luce sprang up in the place of reeds ; 
smilax and poison-oak gave way to the purple- 
plumed iron-weed and pink spiderwort ; the 
bindweeds ran everywhere blooming as they ran, 
and on one of the dead cypresses a giant creeper 
hung its green burden of foliage and lifted its scar- 
let trumpets. Sparrows and red-birds flitted 
through the bushes, and dewberries grew ripe 
beneath. Over all these came a sweet, dry smell 
of salubrity which the place had not known since 
the sediments of the Mississippi first lifted it from 
the sea. 

But its owner did not build. Over the willow- 
brakes, and down the vista of the open street, 
bright new houses, some singly, some by ranks, 
were prying in upon the old man’s privacy. They 
even settled down toward his southern side. First 
a wood-cutter’s hut or two, then a market gar- 
dener’s shanty, then a painted cottage, and all at 
once the faubourg had flanked and half sur- 
rounded him and his dried-up marsh. 

Ah ! then the common people began to hate 
him. “ The old tyrant ! ” “ You don’t mean an 

old tyrant “Well, then, why don’t he build 
when the public need demands it ? What does he 
live in that unneighborly way for ? ” “ The old 

pirate ! ” “ The old kidnapper ! ” How easily 
even the most ultra Louisianians put on the im- 
ported virtues of the North when they could be 
brought to bear against the hermit. “There he 
goes, with the boys after him ! Ah ! ha ! ha ! 


JEAN- AH POQUELIN 


2II 


Jean-ah Poquelin! Ah! Jean-ah ! Aha! aha! 
Jean-ah Marie ! Jean-ah Poquelin ! The old vil- 
lain ! ” How merrily the swarming Am^ricains 
echo the spirit of persecution ! “ The old fraud,” 

they say — “ pretends to live in a haunted house, 
does he ? We’ll tar and feather him some day. 
Guess we can fix him.” 

He cannot be rowed home along the old canal 
now; he walks. He has broken sadly of late, 
and the street urchins are ever at his heels. It is 
like the days when they cried : “ Go up, thou 
bald-head,” and the old man now and then turns 
and delivers ineffectual curses. 

To the Creoles — to the incoming lower class of 
superstitious Germans, Irish, Sicilians, and others 
— he became an omen and embodiment of public 
and private ill-fortune. Upon him all the vagaries 
of their superstitions gathered and grew. If a 
house caught fire, it was imputed to his machina- 
tions. Did a woman go off in a fit, he had be- 
witched her. Did a child stray off for an hour, 
the mother shivered with the apprehension that 
Jean Poquelin had offered him to strange gods. 
The house was the subject of every bad boy’s 
invention who loved to contrive ghostly lies. “ As 
long as that house stands we shall have bad luck. 
Do you not see our pease and beans dying, our 
cabbages and lettuce going to seed and our gar- 
dens turning to dust, while every day you can see 
it raining in the woods ? The rain will never pass 
old Poquelin’s house. He keeps a fetich. He 


212 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


has conjured the whole Faubourg St. Marie. And 
why, the old wretch ? Simply because our play- 
ful and innocent children call after him as he 
passes.” 

A “ Building and Improvement Company,” 
which had not yet got its charter, “ but was going 
to,” and which had not, indeed, any tangible capi- 
tal yet, but “ was going to have some,” joined the 
“ Jean-ah Poquelin ” war. The haunted property 
would be such a capital site for a market-house ! 
They sent a deputation to the old mansion to ask 
its occupant to sell. The deputation never got 
beyond the chained gate and a very barren inter- 
view with the African mute. The President of 
the Board was then empowered (for he had studied 
French in Pennsylvania and was considered quali- 
fied) to call and persuade M. Poquelin to subscribe 
to the company’s stock ; but — 

“ Fact is, gentlemen,” he said at the next meet- 
ing, “ it would take us at least twelve months to 
make Mr. Pokaleen understand the rather original 
features of our system, and he wouldn’t subscribe 
when we’d done ; besides, the only way to see him 
is to stop him on the street.” 

There was a great laugh from the Board ; they 
couldn’t help it. “ Better meet a bear robbed of 
her whelps,” said one. 

“ You’re mistaken as to that,” said the Presi- 
dent. “ I did meet him, and stopped him, and 
found him quite polite. But I could get no satis- 
faction from him; the fellow wouldn’t talk in 


JEAN. AH POQUELIN 


213 


French, and when I spoke in English he hoisted 
his old shoulders up, and gave the same answer 
to every thing I said.” 

“And that was — ?” asked one or two, impa- 
tient of the pause. 

“ That it ‘ don’t worse w’ile ? ’ ” 

One of the Board said : “ Mr. President, this 
market-house project, as I take it, is not altogether 
a selfish one ; the community is to be benefited by 
it. We may feel that we are working in the pub- 
lic interest [the Board smiled knowingly], if we 
employ all possible means to oust this old nuisance 
from among us. You may know that at the time 
the street was cut through, this old Poquelann did 
all he could to prevent it. It was owing to a cer- 
tain connection which I had with that affair that I 
heard a ghost story [smiles, followed by a sudden 
dignified check] — ghost story, which, of course, 
I am not going to relate ; but I may say that my 
profound conviction, arising from a prolonged 
study of that story, is, that this old villain, John 
Poquelann, has his brother locked up in that old 
house. Now, if this is so, and we can fix it on 
him, I merely suggest that we can make the matter 
highly useful. I don’t know,” he added, begin- 
ning to sit down, “ but that it is an action we owe 
to the community — hem ! ” 

“ How do you propose to handle the subject? ” 
asked the President. 

“ I was thinking,” said the speaker, “ that, as a 
Board of Directors, it would be unadvisable for us 


214 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


to authorize any action involving trespass ; but if 
you, for instance, Mr. President, should, as it were, 
for mere curiosity, request some one, as, for in- 
stance, our excellent Secretary, simply as a per- 
sonal favor, to look into the matter — this is merely 
a suggestion.” 

The Secretary smiled sufficiently to be under- 
stood that, while he certainly did not consider 
such preposterous service a part of his duties as 
secretary, he might, notwithstanding, accede to 
the President’s request; and the Board ad- 
journed. 

Little White, as the Secretary was called, was a 
mild, kind-hearted little man, who, nevertheless, 
had no fear of any thing, unless it was the fear of 
being unkind. 

“ I tell you frankly,” he privately said to the 
President, “ I go into this purely for reasons of 
my own.” 

The next day, a little after nightfall, one might 
have descried this little man slipping along the rear 
fence of the Poquelin place, preparatory to vaulting 
over into the rank, grass-grown yard, and bearing 
himself altogether more after the manner of a col- 
lector of rare chickens than according to the usage 
of secretaries. 

The picture presented to his eye was not calcu- 
lated to enliven his mind. The old mansion stood 
out against the western sky, black and silent. One 
long, lurid pencil-stroke along a sky of slate was 
all that was left of daylight. No sign of life was 


JEAN-AH POQUELIN 


215 


apparent ; no light at any window, unless it might 
have been on the side of the house hidden from 
view. No owls were on the chimneys, no dogs 
were in the yard. 

He entered the place, and ventured up behind 
a small cabin which stood apart from the house. 
Through one of its many crannies he easily de- 
tected the African mute crouched before a flicker- 
ing pine-knot, his head on his knees, fast asleep. 

He concluded to enter the mansion, and, with 
that view, stood and scanned it. The broad rear 
steps of the veranda would not serve him ; he 
might meet some one midway. He was measur- 
ing, with his eye, the proportions of one of the 
pillars which supported it, and estimating the 
practicability of climbing it, when he heard a foot- 
step. Some one dragged a chair out toward the 
railing, then seemed to change his mind and be- 
gan to pace the veranda, his footfalls resounding 
on the dry boards with singular loudness. Little 
White drew a step backward, got the figure be- 
tween himself and the sky, and at once recognized 
the short, broad-shouldered form of old Jean Po- 
quelin. 

He sat down upon a billet of wood, and, to es- 
cape the stings of a whining cloud of mosquitoes, 
shrouded his face and neck in his handkerchief, 
leaving his eyes uncovered. 

He had sat there but a moment when he noticed 
a strange, sickening odor, faint, as if coming from 
a distance, but loathsome and horrid. 


2i6 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


Whence could it come? Not from the cabin; 
not from the marsh, for it was as dry as powder. 
It was not in the air ; it seemed to come from the 
ground. 

Rising up, he noticed, for the first time, a few 
steps before him a narrow footpath leading toward 
the house. He glanced down it — ha! right there 
was some one coming — ghostly white ! 

Quick as thought, and as noiselessly, he lay 
down at full length against the cabin. It was bold 
strategy, and yet, there was no denying it, little 
White felt that he was frightened. “ It is not a 
ghost,” he said to himself. “ I know it cannot be 
a ghost; ” but the perspiration burst out at every 
pore, and the air seemed to thicken with heat. 
“ It is a living man,” he said in his thoughts. “ I 
hear his footstep, and I hear old Poquelin’s foot- 
steps, too, separately, over on the veranda. I am 
not discovered ; the thing has passed ; there is 
that odor again ; what a smell of death ! Is it 
coming back? Yes. It stops at the door of the 
cabin. Is it peering in at the sleeping mute ? It 
moves away. It is in the path again. Now it is 
gone.” He shuddered. “Now, if I dare ven- 
ture, the mystery is solved.” He rose cautiously, 
close against the cabin, and peered along the path. 

The figure of a man, a presence if not a body — 
but whether clad in some white stuff or naked, 
the darkness would not allow him to determine — 
had turned, and now, with a seeming painful gait, 
moved slowly from him. “ Great Heaven ! can 


JEAN-AH POQUELIN 




it be that the dead do walk ? ” He withdrew 
again the hands which had gone to his eyes. The 
dreadful object passed between two pillars and 
under the house. He listened. There was a 
faint sound as of feet upon a staircase j then all 
was still except the measured tread of Jean Po- 
quelin walking on the veranda, and the heavy res- 
pirations of the mute slumbering in the cabin. 

The little Secretary was about to retreat; but 
as he looked once more toward the haunted house 
a dim light appeared in the crack of a closed win- 
dow, and presently old Jean Poquelin came, drag- 
ging his chair, and sat down close against the 
shining cranny. He spoke in a low, tender tone 
in the French tongue, making some inquiry. An 
answer came from within. Was it the voice of a 
human ? So unnatural was it — so hollow, so dis- 
cordant, so unearthly — that the stealthy listener 
shuddered again from head to foot; and when 
something stirred in some bushes near by — 
though it may have been nothing more than a 
rat — and came scuttling through the grass, the 
little Secretary actually turned and fled. As he 
left the enclosure he moved with bolder leisure 
through the bushes ; yet now and then he spoke 
aloud : “ Oh, oh ! I see, I understand ! ” and shut 
his eyes in his hands. 

How strange that henceforth little White was 
the champion of Jean Poquelin ! In season and 
out of season — wherever a word was uttered 
against him — the Secretary, with a quiet, aggres- 


2i8 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


sive force that instantly arrested gossip, demanded 
upon what authority the statement or conjecture 
was made ; but as he did not condescend to ex- 
plain his own remarkable attitude, it was not long 
before the disrelish and suspicion which had fol- 
lowed Jean Poquelin so many years fell also upon 
him. 

It was only the next evening but one after his 
adventure that he made himself a source of sullen 
amazement to one hundred and fifty boys, by or- 
dering them to desist from their wanton hallooing. 
Old Jean Poquelin, standing and shaking his cane, 
rolling out his long-drawn maledictions, paused 
and stared, then gave the Secretary a courteous 
bow and started on. The boys, save one, from 
pure astonishment, ceased; but a ruffianly little 
Irish lad, more daring than any had yet been, 
threw a big hurtling clod, that struck old Poquelin 
between the shoulders and burst like a shell. The 
enraged old man wheeled with uplifted staff to 
give chase to the scampering vagabond; and — 
he may have tripped, or he may not, but he fell 
full length. Little White hastened to help him 
up, but he waved him off with a fierce imprecation 
and staggering to his feet resumed his way home- 
ward. His lips were reddened with blood. 

Little White was on his way to the meeting of 
the Board. He would have given all he dared 
spend to have staid away, for he felt both too 
fierce and too tremulous to brook the criticisms 
that were likely to be made. 


JEAN-AH POQUELIN 


219 


“ I can’t help it, gentlemen ; I can’t help you to 
make a case against the old man, and I’m not going 
to.” 

“ We did not expect this disappointment, Mr. 
White.” 

“ I can’t help that, sir. No, sir; you had bet- 
ter not appoint any more investigations. Some- 
body’ll investigate himself into trouble. No, sir; 
it isn’t a threat, it is only my advice, but I warn 
you that whoever takes the task in hand will rue 
it to his dying day — which may be hastened, too.” 

The President expressed himself surprised. 

“ I don’t care a rush,” answered little White, 
wildly and foolishly. “ I don’t care a rush if you 
are, sir. No, my nerves are not disordered; my 
head’s as clear as a bell. No, I’m not excited.” 

A Director remarked that the Secretary looked 
as though he had waked from a nightmare. 

“ Well, sir, if you want to know the fact, I have ; 
and if you choose to cultivate old Poquelin’s soci- 
ety you can have one, too.” 

“ White,” called a facetious member, but White- 
did not notice. “ White,” he called again. 

“ What? ” demanded White, with a scowl. 

“ Did you see the ghost ? ” 

“ Yes, sir ; I did,” cried White, hitting the table, 
and handing the President a paper which brought 
the Board to other business. 

The story got among the gossips that somebody 
(they were afraid to say little White) had been to 
the Poquelin mansion by night and beheld some- 


220 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


thing appalling. The rumor was but a shadow of 
the truth, magnified and distorted as is the manner 
of shadows. He had seen skeletons walking, and 
had barely escaped the clutches of one by making 
the sign of the cross. 

Some madcap boys with an appetite for the 
horrible plucked up courage to venture through 
the dried marsh by the cattle-path, and come be- 
fore the house at a spectral hour when the air was 
full of bats. Something which they but half saw 
— half a sight was enough — sent them tearing 
back through the willow-brakes and acacia bushes 
to their homes, where they fairly dropped down, 
and cried: 

“Was it white?” “No — yes — nearly so — 
we can’t tell — but we saw it.” And one could 
hardly doubt, to look at their ashen faces, that 
they had, whatever it was. 

“ If that old rascal lived in the country we come 
from,” said certain Americains, “ he’d have been 
tarred and feathered before now, wouldn’t he, 
Sanders ? ” 

“ Well, now he just would.” 

“ And we’d have rid him on a rail, wouldn’t we? ” 

“ That’s what I allow.” 

“ Tell you what you could do.” They were talk- 
ing to some rollicking Creoles who had assumed 
an absolute necessity for doing something. “What 
is it you call this thing where an old man marries 
a young girl, and you come out with horns and ” — 

“ Charivari ? ” asked the Creoles. 


JEAN-AH POQUELIN 


221 


“Yes, that’s it. Why don’t you shivaree him ? ” 
Felicitous suggestion. 

Little White, with his wife beside him, was sit- 
ting on their doorsteps on the sidewalk, as Creole 
custom had taught them, looking toward the sun- 
set. They had moved into the lately-opened street. 
The view was not attractive on the score of beauty. 
The houses were small and scattered, and across 
the flat commons, spite of the lofty tangle of weeds 
and bushes, and spite of the thickets of acacia, 
they needs must see the dismal old Poquelin man- 
sion, tilted awry and shutting out the declining 
sun. The moon, white and slender, was hanging 
the tip of its horn over one of the chimneys. 

“ And you say,” said the Secretary, “ the old 
black man has been going by here alone ? Patty, 
suppose old Poquelin should be concocting some 
mischief; he don’t lack provocation; the way that 
clod hit him the other day was enough to have 
killed him. Why, Patty, he dropped as quick as 
that! No wonder you haven’t seen him. I won- 
der if they haven’t heard something about him up 
at the drug-store. Suppose I go and see.” 

“ Do,” said his wife. 

She sat alone for half an hour, watching that 
sudden going out of the day peculiar to the lati- 
tude. 

“ That moon is ghost enough for one house,” 
she said, as her husband returned. “ It has gone 
right down the chimney.” 

“ Patty,” said little White, “ the drug-clerk says 


222 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


the boys are going to shivaree old Poquelin to- 
night. I’m going to try to stop it.” 

“ Why, White,” said his wife, “ you’d better not. 
You’ll get hurt.” 

« No, I’ll not.” 

“ Yes, you will.” 

“ I’m going to sit out here until they come along. 
They’re compelled to pass right by here.” 

“ Why, White, it may be midnight before they 
start; you’re not going to sit out here till then.” 

“ Yes, I am.” 

“Well, you’re very foolish,” said Mrs. White in 
an undertone, looking anxious, and tapping one of 
the steps with her foot. 

They sat a very long time talking over little 
family matters. 

“What’s that ? ” at last said Mrs. White. 

“ That’s the nine-o’clock gun,” said White, and 
they relapsed into a long-sustained, drowsy si- 
lence. 

“ Patty, you’d better go in and go to bed,” said 
he at last. 

“ I’m not sleepy.” 

“ Well, you’re very foolish,” quietly remarked 
little White, and again silence fell upon them. 

“ Patty, suppose I walk out to the old house and 
see if I can find out any thing.” 

“ Suppose,” said she, “ you don’t do any such — 
listen ! ” 

Down the street arose a great hubbub. Dogs 
and boys were howling and barking; men were 


JEAN- AH POQUELIN 


223 


laughing, shouting, groaning, and blowing horns, 
whooping, and clanking cow-bells, whinnying, 
and howling, and rattling pots and pans. 

“ They are coming this way,” said little White. 
“ You had better go into the house, Patty.” 

“ So had you.” 

“ No. I’m going to see if I can’t stop them.” 

“ Why, White ! ” 

“ I’ll be back in a minute,” said White, and 
went toward the noise. 

In a few moments the little Secretary met the 
mob. The pen hesitates on the word, for there 
is a respectable difference, measurable only on the 
scale of the half century, between a mob and a 
charivari. Little White lifted his ineffectual voice. 
He faced the head of the disorderly column, and 
cast himself about as if he were made of wood and 
moved by the jerk of a string. He rushed to one 
who seemed, from the size and clatter of his tin 
pan, to be a leader. “ Stop these fellows, Bienvenu, 
stop them just a minute, till I tell them something^' 
Bienvenu turned and brandished his instruments 
of discord in an imploring way to the crowd. They 
slackened their pace, two or three hushed their 
horns and joined the prayer of little White and 
Bienvenu for silence. The throng halted. The 
hush was delicious. 

“ Bienvenu,” said little White, “ don’t shivaree 
old Poquelin to-night; he’s” — 

“ My fwang,” said the swaying Bienvenu, “ who 
tail you I goin’ to chahivahi somebody, eh ? You 


224 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


sink bickause I make a little playfool wiz zis tin 
pan zat I am dkonk?’^ 

“ Oh, no, Bienvenu, old fellow, you’re all right. 
I was afraid you might not know that old Poque- 
lin was sick, you know, but you’re not going 
there, are you ? ” 

“ My fwang, I vay soy to tail you zat you ah 
dhonk as de dev’. I am shem of you. I ham ze 
servan’ of ze publiqice. Zese citoyens goin’ to 
wickwest Jean Poquelin to give to the Ursuline’ 
two hondred fifty dolla’ ” — 

He quoi/^^ cried a listener, Cinq cent pias- 
tres, Old! ” 

“ Old! ” said Bienvenu, “ and if he wiffuse we 
make him some lit’ musique ; ta-ra-ta!” He 
hoisted a merry hand and foot, then frowning, 
added : “ Old Poquelin got no bizniz dhink s’much 
w’isky.” 

“But, gentlemen,” said little White, around 
whom a circle had gathered, “ the old man is very 
sick.” 

“ My faith ! ” cried a tiny Creole, “we did not 
make him to be sick. W’en we have say we going 
make le charivari, do you want that we hall tell a 
lie ? My faith ! ’sfools ! ” 

“ But you can shivaree somebody else,” said 
desperate little White. 

“ Oui!"'^ cried 'Bienvenu,** etchahivahi] ea.n-a.h. 
Poquelin tomo’w ! ” 

“ Let us go to Madame Schneider ! ” cried two 
or three, and amid huzzas and confused cries, 


JEAN-AH POQUELIN 


225 


among which was heard a stentorian Celtic call for 
drinks, the crowd again began to move. 

“ Cent piastres pourVhopital de chariteP'* 

« Hurrah I ” 

“ One hongred dolla’ for Charity Hospital ! ” 

“ Hurrah ! ” 

“ Whang ! ” went a tin pan, the crowd yelled, 
and Pandemonium gaped again. They were off 
at a right angle. 

Nodding, Mrs. White looked at the mantle- 
clock. 

“ Well, if it isn’t away after midnight.” 

The hideous noise down street was passing be- 
yond earshot. She raised a sash and listened. 
For a moment there was silence. Some one came 
to the door. 

“Is that you. White ? ” 

“Yes.” He entered. “I succeeded, Patty.” 

“ Did you ? ” said Patty, joyfully. 

“ Yes. They’ve gone down to shivaree the old 
Dutchwoman who married her step-daughter’s 
sweetheart. They say she has got to pay a hun- . 
dred dollars to the hospital before they stop.” 

The couple retired, and Mrs. White slumbered. 
She was awakened by her husband snapping the 
lid of his watch. 

“ What time ? ” she asked. 

“Half-past three. Patty, I haven’t slept a 
wink. Those fellows are out yet. Don’t you 
hear them ? ” 

“ WTiy, White, they’re coming this way ! ” 


226 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


“ I know they are,” said White, sliding out of 
bed and drawing on his clothes, “and they’re 
coming fast. You’d better go away from that 
window, Patty ! My ! what a clatter ! ” 

“ Here they are,” said Mrs. White, but her hus- 
band was gone. Two or three hundred men and 
boys pass the place at a rapid walk straight down 
the broad, new street, toward the hated house of 
ghosts. The din was terrific. She saw little 
White at the head of the rabble brandishing his 
arms and trying in vain to make himself heard; 
but they only shook their heads, laughing and 
hooting the louder, and so passed, bearing him 
on before them. 

Swiftly they pass out from among the houses, 
away from the dim oil lamps of the street, out into 
the broad starlit commons, and enter the willowy 
jungles of the haunted ground. Some hearts fail 
and their owners lag behind and turn back, sud- 
denly remembering how near morning it is. But the 
most part push on, tearing the air with their clamor. 

Down ahead of them in the long, thicket-dark- 
ened way there is — singularly enough — a faint, 
dancing light. It must be very near the old house; 
it is. It has stopped now. It is a lantern, and is 
under a well-known sapling which has grown up 
on the wayside since the canal was filled. Now 
it swings mysteriously to and fro. A goodly num- 
ber of the more ghost-fearing give up the sport ; 
but a full hundred move forward at a run, doub- 
ling their devilish howling and banging. 


JEAN. AH POQUELIN 


227 


Yes ; it is a lantern, and there are two persons 
under the tree. The crowd draws near — drops 
into a walk; one of the two is the old African 
mute ; he lifts the lantern up so that it shines on 
the other ; the crowd recoils ; there is a hush of 
all clangor, and all at once, with a cry of mingled 
fright and horror from every throat, the whole 
throng rushes back, dropping every thing, sweep- 
ing past little White and hurrying on, never stop- 
ping until the jungle is left behind, and then to 
find that not one in ten has seen the cause of the 
stampede, and not one of the tenth is certain what 
it was. 

There is one huge fellow among them who looks 
capable of any villany. He finds something to 
mount on, and, in the Creole patois, calls a general 
halt. Bienvenu sinks down, and, vainly trying to 
recline gracefully, resigns the leadership. The 
herd gather round the speaker; he assures them 
that they have been outraged. Their right peace- 
ably to traverse the public streets has been tram- 
pled upon. Shall such encroachments be en- 
dured ? It is now daybreak. Let them go now 
by the open light of day and force a free passage 
of the public highway ! v 

A scattering consent was the response, and the 
crowd, thinned now and drowsy, straggled quietly 
down toward the old house. Some drifted ahead, 
others sauntered behind, but every one, as he again 
neared the tree, came to a stand-still. Little White 
sat upon a bank of turf on the opposite side of the 


228 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


way looking very stern and sad. To each new- 
comer he put the same question : 

“ Did you come here to go to old Poquelin’s ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ He’s dead.” And if the shocked hearer 
started away he would say : “ Don’t go away.” 

“Why not?” 

“ I want you to go to the funeral presently.” 

If some Louisianian, too loyal to dear France or 
Spain to understand English, looked bewildered, 
some one would interpret for him ; and presently 
they went. Little White led the van, the crowd 
trooping after him down the middle of the way. 
The gate, that had never been seen before un- 
chained, was open. Stern little White stopped a 
short distance from it ; the rabble stopped behind 
him. Something was moving out from under the 
veranda. The many whisperers stretched upward 
to see. The African mute came very slowly tow- 
ard the gate, leading by a cord in the nose a small 
brown bull, which was harnessed to a rude cart. 
On the flat body of the cart, under a black cloth, 
were seen the outlines of a long box. 

“ Hats off, gentlemen,” said little White, as the 
box came in view, and the crowd silently uncovered. 

“ Gentlemen,” said little White, “ here come the 
last remains of Jean Marie Poquelin, a better man, 
I’m afraid, with all his sins, — yes a better — a 
kinder man to his blood — a man of more self- 
forgetful goodness — than all of you put together 
will ever dare to be.” 


JEAN-AH POQUELIN 


229 


There was a profound hush as the vehicle came 
creaking through the gate; but when it turned 
away from them toward the forest, those in front 
started suddenly. There v s a backward rush, 
then all stood still again starivg one way ; for 
there, behind the bier, with eyes cast down and 
labored step, walked the living remains — all that 
was left — of little Jacques Poquelin, the long- 
hidden brother — a leper, as white as snow. 

Dumb with horror, the cringing crowd gazed 
upon the walking death. They watched, in silent 
awe, the slow cortege creep down the long, straight 
road and lessen on the view, until by and by it 
stopped where a wild, unfrequented path branched 
off into the undergrowth toward the rear of the 
ancient city. 

“ They are going to the Terre aux Lepreux^^ 
said one in the crowd. The rest watched them in 
silence. 

The little bull was set free ; the mute, with the 
strength of an ape, lifted the long box to his shoul- 
der. For a moment more the mute and the leper 
stood in sight, while the former adjusted his heavy 
burden ; then, without one backward glance upon 
the unkind human world, turning their faces tow-^ 
ard the ridge in the depths of the swamp known 
as the Leper’s Land, they stepped into the jungle, 
disappeared, and were never seen again. 




TITE POULETTE 










’TITE POULETTE 


RISTIAN KOPPIG was a rosy-faced, 
beardless young Dutchman. He was 
one of that army of gentlemen who, af- 
ter the purchase of Louisiana, swarmed 
from all parts of the commercial world, over the 
mountains of Franco-Spanish exclusiveness, like 
the Goths over the Pyrenees, and settled down in 
New Orleans to pick up their fortunes, with the 
diligence of hungry pigeons. He may have been 
a German ; the distinction was too fine for Creole 
haste and disrelish. 

He made his home in a room with one dormer 
window looking out, and somewhat down, upon a 
building opposite, which still stands, flush with 
the street, a century old. Its big, round-arched 
windows in a long, second-story row, are walled 
up, and two or three from time to time have had 
smaller windows let into them again, with odd 
little latticed peep-holes in their batten shutters. 
This had already been done when Kristian Koppig 
233 




234 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


first began to look at them from his solitary dor- 
mer window. 

All the features of the building lead me to guess 
that it is a remnant of the old Spanish Barracks, 
whose extensive structure fell by government sale 
into private hands a long time ago. At the end 
toward the swamp a great, oriental-looking pas- 
sage is left, with an arched entrance, and a pair of 
ponderous wooden doors. You look at it, and 
almost see Count O’Reilly’s artillery come bump- 
ing and trundling out, and dash around into the 
ancient Plaza to bang away at King St. Charles’s 
birthday. 

I do not know who lives there now. You might 
stand about on the opposite banquette for weeks 
and never find out. I suppose it is a residence, 
for it does not look like one. That is the rule in 
that region. 

In the good old times of duels, and bagatelle- 
clubs, and theatre-balls, and Cayetano’s circus, 
Kristian Koppig rooming as described, there lived 
in the portion of this house, partly overhanging 
the archway, a palish handsome woman, by the 
name — or going by the name — of Madame John. 
You would hardly have thought of her being 
“ colored.” Though fading, she was still of very 
attractive countenance, fine, rather severe features, 
nearly straight hair carefully kept, and that vivid 
black eye so peculiar to her kind. Her smile, 
which came and went with her talk, was sweet 
and exceedingly intelligent; and something told 


'TITE POULETTE 


235 


you, as you looked at her, that she was one who 
had had to learn a great deal in this troublesome life. 

“ But ! ” — the Creole lads in the street would 
say — “ — her daughter!” and there would be 
lifting of arms, wringing of fingers, rolling of eyes, 
rounding of mouths, gaspings and clasping of 
hands. “ So beautiful, beautiful, beautiful ! White ? 
— white like a water lily I White — like a mag- 
nolia ! ” 

Applause would follow, and invocation of all the 
saints to witness. 

And she could sing. 

“Sing?” (disdainfully) — “if a mocking-bird 
can sing! Ha! ” 

They could not tell just how old she was ; they 
“ would give her about seventeen.” 

Mother and daughter were very fond. The 
neighbors could hear them call each other pet 
names, and see them sitting together, sewing, 
talking happily to each other in the unceasing 
French way, and see them go out and come in 
together on their little tasks and errands. “ ’Tite 
Poulette,” the daughter was called; she never 
went out alone. 

And who was this Madame John ? 

“ Why, you know ! — she was ” — said the wig- 
maker at the corner to Kristian Koppig — “I’ll 
tell you. You know? — she was ” — and the rest 
atomized off in a rasping whisper. She was the 
best yellow-fever nurse in a thousand yards round ; 
but that is not what the wig-maker said. 


236 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


A block nearer the river stands a house alto- 
gether different from the remnant of old barracks. 
It is of frame, with a deep front gallery over which 
the roof extends. It has become a den of Italians, 
who sell fuel by daylight, and by night are up to 
no telling what extent of deviltry. This was once 
the home of a gay gentlemari, whose first name 
happened to be John. He was a member of the 
Good Children Social Club. As his parents lived 
with him, his wife would, according to custom, 
have been called Madame John; but he had no 
wife. His father died, then his mother ; last of 
all, himself. As he is about to be off, in comes 
Madame John, with ’Tite Poulette, then an infant, 
on her arm. 

“ Zalli,” said he, “ I am going.” 

She bowed her head, and wept. 

“ You have been very faithful to me, Zalli.” 

She wept on. 

“ Nobody to take care of you now, Zalli.” 

Zalli only went on weeping. 

“ I want to give you this house, Zalli ; it is for 
you and the little one.” 

An hour after, amid the sobs of Madame John, 
she and the “ little one ” inherited the house, such 
as it was. With the fatal caution which charac- 
terizes ignorance, she sold the property and placed 
the proceeds in a bank, which made haste to fail. 
She put on widow’s weeds, and wore them still 
when ’Tite Poulette “ had seventeen,” as the fran- 
tic lads would say. 


'TITE POULETTE 


237 


How they did chatter over her. Quiet Kristian 
Koppig had never seen the like. He wrote to his 
mother, and told her so. A pretty fellow at the 
corner would suddenly double himself up with 
beckoning to a knot of chums ; these would hasten 
up ; recruits would come in from two or three 
other directions ; as they reached the corner their 
countenances would quickly assume a genteel se- 
verity, and presently, with her mother, ’Tite Pou- 
lette would pass — tall, straight, lithe, her great 
black eyes made tender by their sweeping lashes, 
the faintest tint of color in her Southern cheek, 
her form all grace, her carriage a wonder of sim- 
ple dignity. 

The instant she was gone every tongue was let 
slip on the marvel of her beauty; but, though 
theirs were only the loose New Orleans morals of 
over fifty years ago, their unleashed tongues never 
had attempted any greater liberty than to take up 
the pet name, ’Tite Poulette. And yet the mother 
was soon to be, as we shall discover, a paid dancer 
at the Salle de Condi. 

To Zalli, of course, as to all “ quadroon ladies,” 
the festivities of the Conde-street ball-room were 
familiar of old. There, in the happy days whp 
dear Monsieur John was young, and the eighteenth 
century old, she had often repaired under guard of 
her mother — dead now, alas! — and Monsieur 
John would slip away from the dull play and dry 
society of Theatre d’Orleans, and come around 
with his crowd of elegant friends; and through 


238 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


the long sweet hours of the ball she had danced, 
and laughed, and coquetted under her satin mask, 
even to the baffling and tormenting of that prince 
of gentlemen, dear Monsieur John himself. No 
man of questionable blood dare set his foot within 
the door. Many noble gentlemen were pleased 

to dance with her. Colonel De and General 

La ; city councilmen and officers from the 

Government House. There were no paid dancers 
then. Every thing was decorously conducted in- 
deed ! Every girl’s mother was there, and the 
more discreet always left before there was too 
much drinking. Yes, it was gay, gay ! — but some- 
times dangerous. Ha ! more times than a few 
had Monsieur John knocked down some long- 
haired and long-knifed rowdy, and kicked the 
breath out of him for looking saucily at her ; but 
that was like him, he was so brave and kind ; — 
and he is gone ! 

There was no room for widow’s weeds there. 
So when she put these on, her glittering eyes never 
again looked through her pink and white mask, 
and she was glad of it ; for never, never in her life 
had they so looked for anybody but her dear Mon- 
sieur John, and now he was in heaven — so the 
priest said — and she was a sick-nurse. 

Living was hard work; and, as Madame John 
had been brought up tenderly, and had done what 
she could to rear her daughter in the same mis- 
taken way, with, of course, no more education 
than the ladies in society got, they knew nothing 


'TITE POULETTE 


239 


beyond a little music and embroidery. They 
struggled as they could, faintly ; now giving a 
few private dancing lessons, now dressing hair, 
but ever beat back by the steady detestation of 
their imperious patronesses ; and, by and by, for 
want of that priceless worldly grace known among 
the flippant as “money-sense,” these two poor 
children, born of misfortune and the complacent 
badness of the times, began to be in want. 

Kristian Koppig noticed from his dormer win- 
dow one day a man standing at the big archway 
opposite, and clanking the brass knocker on the 
wicket that was in one of the doors. He was a 
smooth man, with his hair parted in the middle, 
and his cigarette poised on a tiny gold holder. He 
waited a moment, politely cursed the dust, knocked 
again, threw his slender sword-cane under his 
arm, and wiped the inside of his hat with his 
handkerchief. 

Madame John held a parley with him at the 
wicket. ’Tite Poulette was nowhere seen. He 
stood at the gate while Madame John went up- 
stairs. Kristian Koppig knew him. He knew 
him as one knows a snake. He was the manager 
of the Salle de CondL Presently Madame John 
returned with a little bundle, and they hurried iff 
together. 

And now what did this mean ? Why, by any 
one of ordinary acuteness the matter was easily 
understood, but, to tell the truth, Kristian Koppig 
was a trifle dull, and got the idea at once that some 


240 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


damage was being planned against ’Tite Poulette. 
It made the gentle Dutchman miserable not to be 
minding his own business, and yet — 

“ But the woman certainly will not attempt ” — 
said he to himself — “no, no ! she cannot.” Not 
being able to guess what he meant, I cannot say 
whether she could or not. I know that next day 
Kristian Koppig, glancing eagerly over the ‘‘Ami 
des Loisy' read an advertisement which he had 
always before skipped with a frown. It was 
headed, “ Salle de Condey’’ and, being interpreted, 
signified that a new dance was to be introduced, the 
Danse de Chinois, and that a young lady would 
follow it with the famous “Danse du Shatvl." 

It was the Sabbath. The young man watched 
the opposite window steadily and painfully from 
early in the afternoon until the moon shone bright; 
and from the time the moon shone bright until 
Madame John! — joy! — Madame John! and not 
’Tite Poulette, stepped through the wicket, much 
dressed and well muffled, and hurried off toward 
the Rue Conde. Madame John was the “young 
lady; ” and the young man’s mind, glad to return 
to its own unimpassioned affairs, relapsed into 
quietude. 

Madame John danced beautifully. It had to be 
done. It brought some pay, and pay was bread ; 
and every Sunday evening, with a touch here and 
there of paint and powder, the mother danced the 
dance of the shawl, the daughter remaining at 
home alone. 


'TITE POULETTE 


241 


Kristian Koppig, simple, slow-thinking young 
Dutchman, never noticing that he stayed at home 
with his window darkened for the very purpose, 
would see her come to her window and look out 
with a little wild, alarmed look in her magnificent 
eyes, and go and come again, and again, until the 
mother, like a storm-driven bird, came panting 
home. 

Two or three months went by. 

One night, on the mother’s return, Kristian 
Koppig coming to his room nearly at the same 
moment, there was much earnest conversation, 
which he could see, but not hear. 

“ ’Tite Poulette,” said Madame John, “you are 
seventeen.” 

“True, Maman.” 

“ Ah ! My child, I see not how you are to meet 
the future.” The voice trembled plaintively. 

“ But how, Maman ? ” 

“ Ah ! you are not like others ; no fortune, no 
pleasure, no friend.” 

“ Maman ! ” 

“No, no; — I thank God for it; I am glad you 
are not ; but you will be lonely, lonely, all your 
poor life long. There is no place in this world 
for us poor women. I wish that we were either 
white or black ! ” — and the tears, two “ shining 
ones,” stood in the poor quadroon’s eyes. 

The daughter stood up, her eyes flashing. 

“ God made us, Maman,” she said with a gentle, 
but stately smile. 


242 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


“ Ha! ” said the mother, her keen glance dart- 
ing through her tears, “ Sin made me, yes.” 

“ No,” said ’Tite Poulette, “ God made us. He 
made us just as we are ; not more white, not more 
black.” 

“ He made you, truly ! ” said Zalli. You are 
so beautiful ; I believe it well.” She reached and 
drew the fair form to a kneeling posture. “ My 
sweet, white daughter ! ” 

Now the tears were in the girl’s eyes. “And 
could I be whiter than I am ? ” she asked. 

“ Oh, no, no ! ’Tite Poulette,” cried the other; 
“ but if we were only real white! — both of us ; so 
that some gentleman might come to see me and 
say * Madame John, I want your pretty little 
chick. She is so beautiful. I want to take her 
home. She is so good — I want her to be my 
wife.’ Oh, my child, my child, to see that I would 
give my life — I would give my soul ! Only you 
should take me along to be your servant. I walked 
behind two young men to-night ; they were com- 
ing home from their office ; presently they began 
to talk about you.” 

’Tite Poulette’s eyes flashed fire. 

“ No, my child, they spoke only the best things. 
One laughed a little at times and kept saying ‘ Be- 
ware ! ’ but the other — I prayed the Virgin to bless 
him, he spoke such kind and noble words. Such 
gentle pity ; such a holy heart I ‘ May God defend 
her,’ he said, chirie ; he said, ‘ May God defend 
her, for I see no help for her.’ The other one 


'TITE POULETTE 


243 


laughed and left him. He stopped in the door 
right across the street. Ah, my child, do you 
blush ? Is that something to bring the rose to 
your cheek? Many fine gentlemen at the ball 
ask me often, ‘ How is your daughter, Madame 
John ? ’ » 

The daughter’s face was thrown into the moth- 
er’s lap, not so well satisfied, now, with God’s 
handiwork. Ah, how she wept ! Sob, sob, sob; 
gasps and sighs and stifled ejaculations, her small 
right hand clinched and beating on her mother’s 
knee ; and the mother weeping over her. 

Kristian Koppig shut his window. Nothing 
but a generous heart and a Dutchman’s phlegm 
could have done so at that moment. And even 

thou, Kristian Koppig ! for the window closed 

very slowly. 

He wrote to his mother, thus : 

“ In this wicked city, I see none so fair as the 
poor girl who lives opposite me, and who, alas ! 
though so fair, is one of those whom the taint of 
caste has cursed. She lives a lonely, innocent life 
in the midst of corruption, like the lilies I find 
here in the marshes, and I have great pity for her. 

‘ God defend her,’ I said to-night to a fellow-clerk, 

‘ I see no help for her. ’ I know there is a nat- 
ural, and I think proper, horror of mixed blood 
(excuse the mention, sweet mother), and I feel it, 
too ; and yet if she were in Holland to-day, not 
one of a hundred suitors would detect the hidden 
blemish.” 


244 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


In such strain this young man wrote on trying 
to demonstrate the utter impossibility of his ever 
loving the lovable unfortunate, until the midnight 
tolling of the cathedral clock sent him to bed. 

About the same hour Zalli and ’Tite Poulette 
were kissing good-night. 

“ ’Tite Poulette, I want you to promise me one 
thing.” 

« Well, Maman ? ” 

“ If any gentleman should ever love you and 
ask you to marry, — not knowing, you know, — 
promise me you will not tell him you are not 
white.” 

“ It can never be,” said ’Tite Poulette. 

“ But if it should,” said Madame John plead- 
ingly. 

“ And break the law ? ” asked ’Tite Poulette, 
impatiently. 

“ But the law is unjust,” said the mother. 

“ But it is the law ! ” 

“ But you will not, dearie, will you ? ” 

“ I would surely tell him ! ” said the daughter. 

When Zalli, for some cause, went next morning 
to the window, she started. 

“ ’Tite Poulette ! ” — she called softly without 
moving. The daughter came. The young man, 
whose idea of propriety had actuated him to this 
display, was sitting in the dormer window, read- 
ing. Mother and daughter bent a steady gaze at 
each other. It meant in French, “ If he saw us 
last night ! ” — 


'TITE POULETTE 


245 


“ Ah ! dear,” said the mother, her face beaming 
with fun — 

“ What can it be, Maman ? ” 

“He speaks — oh ! ha, ha! — he speaks — such 
miserable French ! ” 

It came to pass one morning at early dawn that 
Zalli and ’Tite Poulette, going to mass, passed a 
caf6, just as — who should be coming out but Mon- 
sieur, the manager of the Salle de Condi. He 
had not yet gone to bed. Monsieur was aston- 
ished. He had a Frenchman’s eye for the beauti- 
ful, and certainly there the beautiful was. He 
had heard of Madame John’s daughter, and had 
hoped once to see her, but did not ; but could this 
be she ? 

They disappeared within the cathedral. A sud- 
den pang of piety moved him. He followed. ’Tite 
Poulette was already kneeling in the aisle. Zalli, 
still in the vestibule, was just taking her hand 
from the font of holy-water. 

“ Madame John,” whispered the manager. 

She courtesied. 

“ Madame John, that young lady — is she your 
daughter ? ” 

‘«She — she — is my daughter,” said Zalli, with 
somewhat of alarm in her face, which the manager 
misinterpreted. 

“I think not, Madame John.” He shook his 
head, smiling, as one too wise to be fooled. 

“ Yes, Monsieur, she is my daughter.” 


246 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


“ O no, Madame John, it is only make-believe, 
I think.” 

“ I swear she is. Monsieur de la Rue.” 

“ Is that possible ? ” pretending to waver, but 
convinced in his heart of hearts, by Zalli’s alarm, 
that she was lying. “ But how ? Why does she 
not come to our ball-room with you?” 

Zalli, trying to get away from him, shrugged 
and smiled. “ Each to his taste. Monsieur ; it 
pleases her not.” 

She was escaping, but he followed one step 
more. “I shall come to see you, Madame John.” 

She whirled and attacked him with her eyes. 
“ Monsieur must not give himself the trouble ! ” she 
said, the eyes at the same time adding, “ Dare to 
come ! ” She turned again, and knelt to her de- 
votions. The manager dipped in the font, crossed 
himself, and departed. 

Several weeks went by, and M. de la Rue had 
not accepted the fierce challenge of Madame 
John’s eyes. One or two Sunday nights she had 
succeeded in avoiding him, though fulfilling her 
engagement in the Salle ; but by and by pay-day, 
— a Saturday, — came round, and though the pay 
was ready, she was loath to go up to Monsieur’s 
little office. 

It was an afternoon in May. Madame John 
came to her own room, and, with a sigh, sank into 
a chair. Her eyes were wet. 

“ Did you go to his office, dear mother ? ” asked 
’Tite Poulette. 


•TITE POULETTE 


247 


“ I could not,” she answered, dropping her face 
in her hands. 

“ Maman, he has seen me at the window ! ” 

“ While I was gone ? ” cried the mother. 

“ He passed on the other side of the street. He 
looked up purposely, and saw me.” The speak- 
er’s cheeks were burning red. 

Zalli wrung her hands. 

“ It is nothing, mother ; do not go near him.” 

But the pay, my child.” 

The pay matters not.” 

“ But he will bring it here ; he wants the 
chance.” 

That was the trouble, sure enough. 

About this time Kristian Koppig lost his posi- 
tion in the German importing house where, he 
had fondly told his mother, he was indispensable. 

“Summer was coming on,” the senior said, 
“ and you see our young men are almost idle. 
Yes, our engagement was for a year, but ah — we 
could not foresee” — etc., etc., “besides” (at- 
tempting a parting flattery), “ your father is a rich 
gentleman, and you can afford to take the summer 
easy. If we can ever be of any service to you,” 
etc., etc. 

So the young Dutchman spent the afternoons at 
his dormer window reading and glancing down at 
the little casement opposite, where a small, rude 
shelf had lately been put out, holding a row of 
cigar-boxes with wretched little botanical speci- 
mens in them trying to die. ’Tite Poulette was 


248 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


their gardener; and it was odd to see, — dry 
weather or wet, — how many waterings per day 
those plants could take. She never looked up 
from her task ; but I know she performed it with 
that unacknowledged pleasure which all girls love 
and deny, that of being looked upon by noble eyes. 

On this particular Saturday afternoon in May, 
Kristian Koppig had been witness of the distress- 
ful scene over the way. It occurred to ’Tite Pou- 
lette that such might be the case, and she stepped 
to the casement to shut it. As she did so, the 
marvellous delicacy of Kristian Koppig moved 
him to draw in one of his shutters. Both young 
heads came out at one moment, while at the same 
instant — 

“ Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap ! ” clanked the knocker 
on the wicket. The black eyes of the maiden and 
the blue over the way, from looking into each other 
for the first time in life, glanced down to the arched 
doorway upon Monsieur the manager. Then the 
black eyes disappeared within, and Kristian Kop- 
pig thought again, and re-opening his shutter, 
stood up at the window prepared to become a bold 
spectator of what might follow. 

But for a moment nothing followed. 

“ Trouble over there,” thought the rosy Dutch- 
man, and waited. The manager waited too, rub- 
bing his hat and brushing his clothes with the 
tips of his kidded fingers. 

“ They do not wish to see him,” slowly con- 
cluded the spectator. 


'TITE POULETTE 


249 


“ Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap ! ” quoth the knocker, 
and M. de la Rue looked up around at the win- 
dows opposite and noticed the handsome young 
Dutchman looking at him. 

“ Dutch ! ” said the manager, softly, between 
his teeth. 

“ He is staring at me,” said Kristian Koppig 
to himself ; — “ but then I am staring at him, which 
accounts for it.” 

A long pause, and then another long rapping. 

“ They want him to go away,” thought Koppig. 

“ Knock hard ! ” suggested a street youngster, 
standing by. 

“Rap, rap” — The manager had no sooner 
recommenced than several neighbors looked out 
of doors and windows. 

“ Very bad,” thought our Dutchman ; “ some- 
body should make him go off. I wonder what 
they will do.” 

The manager stepped into the street, looked up 
at the closed window, returned to the knocker, and 
stood with it in his hand. 

“They are all gone out. Monsieur,” said the 
street-youngster. 

“ You lie ! ” said the cynosure of neighboring 
eyes. 

“ Ah ! ” thought Kristian Koppig; “ I will go 
down and ask him ” — Here his thoughts lost 
outline ; he was only convinced that he had some- 
what to say to him, and turned to go down stairs. 
In going he became a little vexed with himself 


250 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


because he could not help hurrying. He noticed, 
too, that his arm holding the stair-rail trembled in 
a silly way, whereas he was perfectly calm. Pre- 
cisely as he reached the street-door the manager 
raised the knocker ; but the latch clicked and the 
wicket was drawn slightly ajar. 

Inside could just be descried Madame John. 
The manager bowed, smiled, talked, talked on, 
held money in his hand, bowed, smiled, talked on, 
flourished the money, smiled, bowed, talked on 
and plainly persisted in some intention to which 
Madame John was steadfastly opposed. 

The window above, too, — it was Kristian Kop- 
pig who noticed that, — opened a wee bit, like the 
shell of a terrapin. Presently the manager lifted 
his foot and put forward an arm, as though he 
would enter the gate by pushing, but as quick as 
gunpowder it clapped — in his face ! 

You could hear the fleeing feet of Zalli pound- 
ing up the staircase. 

As the panting mother re-entered her room, 
‘ See, Maman,” said ’Tite Poulette, peeping at the 
window, “ the young gentleman from over the 
way has crossed ! ” 

, “ Holy Mary bless him ! ” said the mother. 

“ I will go over,” thought Kristian Koppig, 
“and ask him kindly if he is not making a 
mistake.” 

“ What are they doing, dear ? ” asked the 
mother, with clasped hands. 

“They are talking j the young man is tranquil. 


'TITE POULETTE 


251 


but ’Sieur de la Rue is very angry,” whispered the 
daughter; and just then — pang! came a sharp, 
keen sound rattling up the walls on either side of 
the narrow way, and “Aha ! ” and laughter and clap- 
ping of female hands from two or three windows. 

“ Oh ! what a slap ! ” cried the girl, half in 
fright, half in glee, jerking herself back from the 
casement simultaneously with the report. But 
the “ ahas ” and laughter, and clapping of femi- 
nine hands, which still continued, came from an- 
other cause. ’Tite Roulette’s rapid action had 
struck the slender cord that held up an end of her 
hanging garden, and the whole rank of cigar- 
boxes slid from their place, turned gracefully over 
as they shot through the air, and emptied them- 
selves plump upon the head of the slapped mana- 
ger. Breathless, dirty, pale as whitewash, he 
gasped a threat to be heard from again, and, 
getting round the corner as quick as he could 
walk, left Kristian Koppig, standing motionless, 
the most astonished man in that street. 

“Kristian Koppig, Kristian Koppig,” said 
Greatheart to himself, slowly dragging up-stairs, 
“ what a mischief you have done. One poor 
woman certainly to be robbed of her bitter wages, 
and another — so lovely! — put to the burning 
shame of being the subject of a street brawl! 
What will this silly neighborhood say? ‘Has 
the gentleman a heart as well as a hand ? ’ ‘Is 
it jealousy? ’ ” There he paused, afraid himself 
to answer the supposed query ; and then — “ Oh ! 


252 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


Kristian Koppig, you have been such a dunce ! ” 
“And I cannot apologize to them. Who in this 
street would carry my note, and not wink and 
grin over it with low surmises ? I cannot even 
make restitution. Money ? They would not dare 
receive it. Oh! Kristian Koppig, why did you 
not mind your own business ? Is she any thing 
to you ? Do you love her ? Of course not ! Oh ! 
— such a dunce ! ” 

The reader will eagerly admit that however 
faulty this young man’s course of reasoning, his 
conclusion was correct. For mark what he did. 

He went to his room, which was already grow- 
ing dark, shut his window, lighted his big Dutch 
lamp, and sat down to write. “ Something must 
be done,” said he aloud, taking up his pen; “I 
will be calm and cool ; I will be distant and brief ; 
but — I shall have to be kind or I may offend. 
Ah! I shall have to write in French; I forgot 
that ; I write it so poorly, dunce that I am, when 
all my brothers and sisters speak it so well.” He 
got out his French dictionary. Two hours slipped 
by. He made a new pen, washed and refilled his 
inkstand, mended his “ abominable ! ” chair, and 
after two hours more made another attempt, and 
another failure. “ My head aches,” said he, and 
lay down on his couch, the better to frame his 
phrases. 

He was awakened by the Sabbath sunlight. The 
bells of the Cathedral and the Ursulines’ chapel 


'TITE POULETTE 


253 


were ringing for high mass, and a mocking-bird, 
perching on a chimney-top above Madame John’s 
rooms, was carolling, whistling, mewing, chirping, 
screaming, and trilling with the ecstasy of a whole 
May in his throat. “ Oh ! sleepy Kristian Kop- 
pig,” was the young man’s first thought, “ — such 
a dunce ! ” 

Madame John and daughter did not go to mass. 
The morning wore away, and their casement re- 
mained closed. “ They are offended,” said Kris- 
tian Koppig, leaving the house, and wandering 
up to the little Protestant affair known as Christ 
Church. 

“ No, possibly they are not,” he said, returning 
and finding the shutters thrown back. 

By a sad accident, which mortified him ex- 
tremely, he happened to see, late in the after- 
noon, — hardly conscious that he was looking 
across the street, — that Madame John was — 
dressing. Could it be that she was going to the 
Salle de Conde? He rushed to his table and be- 
gan to write. 

He had guessed aright. The wages were too 
precious to be lost. The manager had written 
her a note. He begged to assure her that he was 
a gentleman of the clearest cut. If he had made 
a mistake the previous afternoon, he was glad no 
unfortunate result had followed except his having 
been assaulted by a ruffian ; that the Danse du 
Shawl was promised in his advertisement, and he 
hoped Madame John (whose wages were in hand 


254 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


waiting for her) would not fail to assist as usual. 
Lastly, and delicately put, he expressed his con- 
viction that Mademoiselle was wise and discreet 
in declining to entertain gentlemen at her home. 

So, against much beseeching on the part of ’Tite 
Poulette, Madame John was going to the ball- 
room. “ Maybe I can discover what ’Sieur de la 
Rue is planning against Monsieur over the way,” 
she said, knowing certainly the slap would not be 
forgiven ; and the daughter, though tremblingly, 
at once withdrew her objections. 

The heavy young Dutchman, now thoroughly 
electrified, was writing like mad. He wrote and 
tore up, wrote and tore up, lighted his lamp, started 
again, and at last signed his name. A letter by a 
Dutchman in French ! — what can be made of it 
in English ? We will see : 

“Madame and Mademoiselle: 

“ A stranger, seeking not to be acquainted, but seeing and 
admiring all days the goodness and high honor, begs to be 
pardoned of them for the mistakes, alas ! of yesterday, and to 
make reparation and satisfaction in destroying the ornaments 
of the window, as well as the loss of compensation from Mon- 
sieur the manager, with the enclosed bill of the Banqne de 
la Louisiane for fifty dollars {$50). And, hoping they will 
seeing what he is meaning, remains, respectfully, 

‘ Kristian Koppig. 

“ P.S. — Madame must not go to the ball.” 

He must bear the missive himself. He must 
speak in French. What should the words be? A 
moment of study — he has it, and is off down the 


*TITE POULETTE 


255 


long three-story stairway. At the same moment 
Madame John stepped from the wicket, and glided 
off to the Salle de Conde^ a trifle late. 

“ I shall see Madame John, of course,” thought 
the young man, crushing a hope, and rattled the 
knocker. ’Tite Poulette sprang up from praying 
for her mother’s safety. “ What has she forgot- 
ten ? ” she asked herself, and hastened down. 
The wicket opened. The two innocents were 
stunned. 

Aw — aw ” — said the pretty Dutchman, “aw,” 
— blurted out something in virgin Dutch, . . . 
handed her the letter, and hurried down street. 

“ Alas ! what have I done ? ” said the poor girl, 
bending over her candle, and bursting into tears 
that fell on the unopened letter. “ And what shall 
I do ? It may be wrong to open it — and worse 
not to.” Like her sex, she took the benefit of the 
doubt, and intensified her perplexity and misery 
by reading and misconstruing the all but unintel- 
ligible contents. What then ? Not only sobs 
and sighs, but moaning and beating of little fists 
together, and outcries of soul-felt agony stifled 
against the bedside, and temples pressed into 
knitted palms, because of one who “ sought not to 
be acquainted,” but offered money — money! — in 
pity to a poor — shame on her for saying that ! — 
a poor nigresse. 

And now our self-confessed dolt turned back 
from a half-hour’s walk, concluding there might 
be an answer to his note. “ Surely Madame John 


256 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


will appear this time.” He knocked. The shut- 
ter stirred above, and something white came flut- 
tering wildly down like a shot dove. It was his 
own letter containing the fifty-dollar bill. He 
bounded to the wicket, and softly but eagerly 
knocked again. 

“ Go away,” said a trembling voice from above. 

“ Madame John ? ” said he ; but the window 
closed, and he heard a step, the same step on the 
stair. Step, step, every step one step deeper into 
his heart. ’Tite Poulette came to the closed door. 

“ What will you ? ” said the voice within. 

“ I — I — don’t wish to see you. I wish to see 
Madame John.” 

“ I must pray Monsieur to go away. My mother 
is at the Salle de Condcd' 

“ At the ball ! ” Kristian Koppig strayed off, 
repeating the words for want of definite thought. 
All at once it occurred to him that at the ball he 
could make Madame John’s acquaintance with im- 
punity. “Was it courting sin to go?” By no 
means; he should, most likely, save a woman 
from trouble, and help the poor in their distress. 

Behold Kristian Koppig standing on the floor 
of the Salle de Conde. A large hall, a blaze of 
lamps, a bewildering flutter of fans and floating 
robes, strains of music, columns of gay promena- 
ders, a long row of turbaned mothers lining either 
wall, gentlemen of the portlier sort filling the re- 
cesses of the windows, whirling waltzers gliding 
here and there — smiles and grace, smiles and 


'TITE POULETTE 


257 


grace; all fair, orderly, elegant, bewitching. A 
young Creole’s laugh mayhap a little loud, and — 
truly there were many sword-canes. But neither 
grace nor foulness satisfied the eye of the zealous 
young Dutchman. 

Suddenly a muffled woman passed him, leaning 
on a gentleman’s arm. It looked like — it must 
be, Madame John. Speak quick, Kristian Kop- 
pig; do not stop to notice the man! 

“ Madame John ” — bowing — “ I am your neigh- 
bor, Kristian Koppig.” 

Madame John bows low, and smiles — a ball- 
room smile, but is frightened, and her escort, — 
the manager, — drops her hand and slips away. 

“Ah, Monsieur,” she whispers excitedly, “you 
will be killed if you stay here a moment. Are 
you armed? No. Take this.” She tried to slip 
a dirk into his hands, but he would not have it. 

“ Oh, my dear young man, go ! Go quickly ! ” 
she pleaded, glancing furtively down the hall. 

“ I wish you not to dance,” said the young 
man. 

“I have danced already; I am going home. 
Come ; be quick ! we will go together. She thrust 
her arm through his, and they hastened into the 
street. When a square had been passed there 
came a sound of men running behind them. 

“ Run, Monsieur, run ! ” she cried, trying to 
drag him; but Monsieur Dutchman would not. 

“ Run, Monsieur ! Oh, my God ! it is ’Sieur ” — 

“ That for yesterday ! ” cried the manager, strik- 


258 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


ing fiercely with his cane. Kristian Koppig’s fist 
rolled him in the dirt. 

“ That for ’Tite Poulette ! ” cried another man 
dealing the Dutchman a terrible blow from behind. 

And that for me ! hissed a third, thrusting 
at him with something bright. 

“ That for yesterday ! ” screamed the manager, 
bounding like a tiger ; “ That ! ” That ! ” 
« Ha!” 

Then Kristian Koppig knew that he was stabbed. 

“ That ! ” and “ That ! ” and “ That ! ” and the 
poor Dutchman struck wildly here and there, 
grasped the air, shut his eyes, staggered, reeled, 
fell, rose half up, fell again for good, and they 
were kicking him and jumping on him. All at 
once they scampered. Zalli had found the night- 
watch. 

Buz-z-z-z ! ” went a rattle. “ Buz-z-z-z ! ” 
went another. 

“ Pick him up.” 

“ Is he alive ? ” 

• “ Can’t tell ; hold him steady ; lead the way, 
misses.” 

“ He’s bleeding all over my breeches.” 

“ This way — here — around this corner.” 

“ This way now — only two squares more.” 

“ Here we are.” 

“ Rap-rap-rap ! ” on the old brass knocker. 
Curses on the narrow wicket, more on the dark 
archway, more still on the twisting stairs. 

■ Up at last and into the room. 


'TITE POULETTE 


259 


“ Easy, easy, push this under his head ! never 
mind his boots ! ” 

So he lies — on ’Tite Poulette’s own bed. 

The watch are gone. They pause under the 
corner- lamp to count profits;— a single bill — 
Banque de la Louisianey fifty dollars. Providence 
is kind — tolerably so. Break it at the “Guil- 
laume Tell.’’ “But did you ever hear any one 
scream like that girl did?” 

And there lies the young Dutch neighbor. His 
money will not flutter back to him this time ; nor 
will any voice behind a gate “ beg Monsieur to go 
away.” O, Woman ! — that knows no enemy so 
terrible as man ! Come nigh, poor Woman, you 
have nothing to fear. Lay your strange electric 
touch upon the chilly flesh; it strikes no eager 
mischief along the fainting veins. Look your 
sweet looks upon the grimy face, and tenderly lay 
back the locks from the congested brows ; no 
wicked misinterpretation lurks to bite your kind- 
ness. Be motherly, be sisterly, fear nought. Go, 
watch him by night ; you may sleep at his feet 
and he will not stir. Yet he lives, and shall live 
— may live to forget you, who knows ? But for 
all that, be gentle and watchful ; be womanlike, 
we ask no more ; and God reward you ! 

Even while it was taking all the two women’s 
strength to hold the door against Death, the sick 
man himself laid a grief upon them. 

“Mother,” he said to Madame John, quite a 
master of French in his delirium, “ dear mother, 


26 o 


OLD CREOLE DA 


fear not ; trust your boy ; fear nothing. I will 
not marry ’Tite Poulette ; I cannot. She is fair, 
dear mother, but ah ! she is not — don’t you know, 
mother ? don’t you know ? The race ! the race ! 
Don’t you know that she is jet black. Isn’t 
it?” 

The poor nurse nodded “ Yes,” and gave a 
sleeping draught; but before the patient quite 
slept he started once and stared. 

“Take her away,” — waving his hand — “take 
your beauty away. She is jet white. Who could 
take a jet white wife ? O, no, no, no, no ! ” 

Next morning his brain was right. 

“ Madame,” he weakly whispered, “ I was de- 
lirious last night ? ” 

Zalli shrugged. “ Only a very, very, wee, wee 
trifle of a bit.” 

“And did I say something wrong or — foolish ? ” 

“ O, no, no,” she replied ; “ you only clasped 
your hands, so, and prayed, prayed all the time to 
the dear Virgin.” 

“To the virgin ? ” asked the Dutchman, smiling 
incredulously. 

“And St. Joseph — yes, indeed,” she insisted; 
“ you may strike me dead.” 

And so, for politeness’ sake, he tried to credit 
the invention, but grew suspicious instead. 

Hard was the battle against death. Nurses are 
sometimes amazons, and such were these. Through 
the long, enervating summer, the contest lasted ; 
but when at last the cool airs of October came 


*TITE POULETTE 


261 


Stealing in at the bedside like long-banished little 
children, Kristian Koppig rose upon his elbow and 
smiled them a welcome. 

The physician, blessed man, was kind beyond 
measure ; but said some inexplicable things, which 
Zalli tried in vain to make him speak in an under- 
tone. “ If I knew Monsieur John ? ” he said, 
“certainly! Why, we were chums at school. 
And he left you so much as that, Madame John ? 
Ah ! my old friend John, always noble ! And 
you had it all in that naughty bank ? Ah, well, 
Madame John, it matters little. No, I shall not 
tell ’Tite Poulette. Adieu.” 

And another time : — “ If I will let you tell me 
something ? With pleasure, Madame John. No, 
and not tell anybody, Madame J ohn. N o, Madame, 
not even ’Tite Poulette. What ? ” — a long whis- 
tle — “is that pos-si-ble ? — and Monsieur John 
knew it ? — encouraged it ? — eh, well, eh, well ! 
— But — can I believe you, Madame John? Oh! 
you have Monsieur John’s sworn statement. Ah ! 
very good, truly, but — you say you have it ; but 
where is it ? Ah ! to-morrow ! ” a sceptical shrug. 
“ Pardon me, Madame John, I think perhaps, 
haps you are telling the truth. 

“ If I think you did right ? Certainly ! What 
nature keeps back, accident sometimes gives, Ma- 
dame John; either is God’s will. Don’t cry. 
‘ Stealing from the dead? ’ No ! It was giving, 
yes ! They are thanking you in heaven, Madame 
John.” 


262 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


Kristian Koppig, lying awake, but motionless 
and with closed eyes, hears in part, and, fancying 
he understands, rejoices with silent intensity. 
When the doctor is gone he calls Zalli. 

“ I give you a great deal of trouble, eh, Madame 
John ? ” 

“ No, no; you are no trouble at Ml. Had you 
the yellow fever — ah ! then ! ” • 

She rolled her eyes to signify the superlative 
character of the tribulations attending yellow 
fever. 

“ I had a lady and gentleman once — a Spanish 
lady and gentleman, just off the ship ; both sick 
at once with the fever — delirious — could not tell 
their names. Nobody to help me but sometimes 
Monsieur John ! I never had such a time, — never 
before, never since, — as that time. Four days and 
nights this head touched not a pillow.” 

“ And they died ! ” said Kristian Koppig. 

“ The third night the gentleman went. Poor 
Sehor ! ’Sieur John, — he did not know the harm, 
— gave him some coffee and toast ! The fourth 
night it rained and turned cool, and just before 
day the poor lady” — 

“ Died ! ” said Koppig. 

Zalli dropped her arms listlessly into her lap and 
her eyes ran brimful. 

And left an infant ! ” said the Dutchman, 
ready to shout with exultation. 

“ Xh ! no. Monsieur,” said Zalli. 

The invalid’s heart sank like a stone. 


•TITE POULETTE 


263 


“ Madame John,” — his voice was all in a tremor^ 
— “ tell me the truth. Is ’Tite Poulette your own 
child ? ” 

“ Ah-h-h, ha ! ha ! what foolishness ! Of course 
she is my child ! ” And Madame gave vent to a 
true Frenchwoman’s laugh. 

It was too much for the sick man. In the pitiful 
weakness of his shattered nerves he turned his 
face into his pillow and wept like a child. Zalli 
passed into the next room to hide her emotion. 

“ Maman, dear Maman,” said ’Tite Poulette, 
who had overheard nothing, but only saw the tears. 

“Ah! my child, my child, my task — my task 
is too great — too great for me. Let me go now 
— another time. Go and watch at his bedside.” 

“But, Maman,” — for ’Tite Poulette was fright- 
ened, — “ he needs no care now.” 

“ Nay, but go, my child ;• I wish to be alone.” 

The maiden stole in with averted eyes and tip- 
toed to the window — that window. The patient, 
already a man again, gazed at her till she could 
feel the gaze. He turned his eyes from her a mo- 
ment to gather resolution. And now, stout heart, 
farewell; a word or two of friendly parting — 
nothing more. 

“ ’Tite Poulette.” 

The slender figure at the window turned and 
came to the bedside. 

“ I believe I owe my life to you,” he said. 

She looked down meekly, the color rising in her 
cheek. 


264 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


“ I must arrange to be moved across the street, 
to-morrow, on a litter.” 

She did not stir or speak. 

“ And I must now thank you, sweet nurse, for 
your care. Sweet nurse ! Sweet nurse ! ” 

She shook her head in protestation. 

“ Heaven bless you, ’Tite Poulette ! ” 

Her face sank lower. 

“ God has made you very beautiful, ’Tite Pou- 
lette ! ” 

She stirred not. He reached, and gently took 
her little hand, and as he drew her one step nearer, 
a tear fell from her long lashes. From the next 
room, Zalli, with a face of agonized suspense, 
gazed upon the pair, undiscovered. The young 
man lifted the hand to lay it upon his lips, when, 
with a mild, firm force, it was drawn away, yet 
still rested in his own upon the bedside, like some 
weak thing snared, that could only not get free. 

“ Thou wilt not have my love, ’Tite Poulette ? ” 

No answer. 

“ Thou wilt not, beautiful ? ” 

“ Cannot I ” was all that she could utter, and 
upon their clasped hands the tears ran down. 

“ Thou wrong’st me, ’Tite Poulette. Thou dost 
not trust me; thou fearest the kiss may loosen 
the hands. But I tell thee nay. I have struggled 
hard, even to this hour, against Love, but I yield 
me now; I yield; I am his unconditioned pris- 
oner forever. God forbid that I ask aught but 
that you will be my wife.” 


•TITE POULETTE 


265 


Still the maiden moved not, looked not up, only 
rained down tears. 

“ Shall it not be, ’Tite Poulette ? ” He tried in 
vain to draw her. 

“ ’Tite Poulette ? ” So tenderly he called ! And 
then she spoke. 

“ It is against the law.” 

“ It is not ! ” cried Zalli, seizing her round the 
waist and dragging her forward. “ Take her ! she 
is thine. I have robbed God long enough. Here 
are the sworn papers — here! Take her; she is 
as white as snow — so! Take her, kiss her; 
Mary be praised ! I never had a child — she 
is the Spaniard’s daughter ! ” 





’SIEUR GEORGE 






’SIEUR GEORGE 


N the heart of New Orleans stands a 
large four-story brick building, that has 
so stood for about three-quarters of a 
century. Its rooms are rented to a 
class of persons occupying them simply for lack 
of activity to find better and cheaper quarters 
elsewhere. With its gray stucco peeling off in 
broad patches, it has a solemn look of gentility 
in rags, and stands, or, as it were, hangs, about 
the corner of two ancient streets, like a faded fop 
who pretends to be looking for employment. 

Under its main archway is a dingy apothecary- 
shop. On one street is the bazaar of a modiste en 
robes et chapeaux and other humble shops ; on the 
other, the immense batten doors with gratings 
over the lintels, barred and bolted with masses of 
cobwebbed iron, like the door of a donjon, are 
overhung by a creaking sign (left by the sheriff), 
on which is faintly discernible the mention of 
wines and liquors. A peep through one of the 

269 




270 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


shops reveals a square court within, hung with 
many lines of wet clothes, its sides hugged by 
rotten staircases that seem vainly trying to clam- 
ber out of the rubbish. 

The neighborhood is one long since given up 
to fifth-rate shops, whose masters and mistresses 
display such enticing mottoes as u gagne petit! ” 
Innumerable children swarm about, and, by some 
charm of the place, are not run over, but obstruct 
the sidewalks playing their clamorous games. 

The building is a thing of many windows, where 
passably good-looking women appear and disap- 
pear, clad in cotton gowns, watering little outside 
shelves of flowers and cacti, or hanging canaries’ 
cages. Their husbands are keepers in wine-ware- 
houses, rent-collectors for the agents of old French- 
men who have been laid up to dry in Paris, cus- 
tom-house supernumeraries and court clerks’ dep- 
uties (for your second-rate Creole is a great seeker 
for little offices). A decaying cornice hangs over, 
dropping bits of mortar on passers below, like a 
boy at a boarding-house. 

The landlord is one Kookoo, an ancient Creole 
of doubtful purity of blood, who in his landlordly 
old age takes all suggestions of repairs as personal 
insults. He was but a stripling when his father 
left him this inheritance, and has grown old and 
wrinkled and brown, a sort of periodically animate 
mummy, in the business. He smokes cascarilla, 
wears velveteen, and is as punctual as an execu- 
tioner. 


'SIEUR GEORGE 


271 


To Kookoo’s venerable property a certain old 
man used for many years to come every evening, 
stumbling through the groups of prattling children 
who frolicked about in the early moonlight — 
whose name no one knew, but whom all the neigh- 
bors designated by the title of ’Sieur George. It 
was his wont to be seen taking a straight — too 
straight — course toward his home, never careen- 
ing to right or left, but now forcing himself slowly 
forward, as though there were a high gale in front, 
and now scudding briskly ahead at a ridiculous 
little dog-trot, as if there were a tornado behind. 
He would go up the main staircase very carefully, 
sometimes stopping half-way up for thirty or forty 
minutes* doze, but getting to the landing eventu- 
ally, and tramping into his room in the second 
story, with no little elation to find it still there. 
Were it not for these slight symptoms of potations, 
he was such a one as you would pick out of a 
thousand for a miser. A year or two ago he sud- 
denly disappeared. 

A great many years ago, when the old house 
was still new, a young man with no baggage save 
a small hair-trunk, came and took the room I have 
mentioned and another adjoining. He supposed 
he might stay fifty days — and he staid fifty years 
and over. This was a very fashionable neighbor- 
hood, and he kept the rooms on that account 
month after month. 

But when he had been here about a year some- 
thing happened to him, so it was rumored, that 


272 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


greatly changed the tenor of his life ; and from 
that time on there began to appear in him and to 
accumulate upon each other in a manner which 
became the profound study of Kookoo, the symp- 
toms of a decay, whose cause baffled the landlord’s 
limited powers of conjecture for well-nigh half a 
century. Hints of a duel, of a reason warped, of 
disinheritance, and many other unauthorized ru- 
mors, fluttered up and floated off, while he became 
recluse, and, some say, began incidentally to be- 
tray the unmanly habit which we have already 
noticed. His neighbors would have continued 
neighborly had he allowed them, but he never let 
himself be understood, and ks Am/ricains are very 
droll anyhow; so, as they could do nothing else, 
they cut him. 

So exclusive he became that (though it may 
have been for economy) he never admitted even a 
housemaid, but kept his apartments himself. Only 
the merry serenaders, who in those times used to 
sing under the balconies, would now and then give 
him a crumb of their feast for pure fun’s sake; 
and after a while, because they could not find out 
his full name, called him, at hazard, George — but 
always prefixing Monsieur. Afterward, when he 
began to be careless in his dress, and the fashion 
of serenading had passed away, the commoner 
people dared to shorten the title to “’Sieur 
George.” 

Many seasons came and went. The city changed 
like a growing boy ; gentility and fashion went up- 
town, but ’Sieur George still retained his rooms. 


•SJEUR GEORGE 


273 


Every one knew him slightly, and bowed, but no 
one seemed to know him well, unless it were a 
brace or so of those convivial fellows in regulation- 
blue at little Fort St. Charles. He often came 
home late, with one of these on either arm, all 
singing different tunes and stopping at every 
twenty steps to tell secrets. But by and by the 
fort was demolished, church and government 
property melted down under the warm demand 
for building-lots, the city spread like a ring-worm, 

— and one day ’Sieur George steps out of the old 
house in full regimentals. 

The Creole neighbors rush bareheaded into the 
middle of the street, as though there were an earth- 
quake or a chimney on fire. What to do or say 
or think they do not know ; they are at their wits’ 
ends, therefore well-nigh happy. However, there 
is a German blacksmith’s shop near by, and they 
watch to see what Jacob will do. Jacob steps into 
the street with every eye upon him ; he approaches 
Monsieur — he addresses to him a few remarks — 
they shake hands — they engage in some conver- 
sation — Monsieur places his hand on his sword! 

— now Monsieur passes. 

The populace crowd around the blacksmith, 
children clap their hands softly and jump up and 
down on tiptoes of expectation — ’Sieur George is 
going to the war in Mexico ! 

“ Ah ! ” says a little girl in the throng, “ ’Sieur 
George’s two rooms will be empty; I find that 
very droll.” 

The landlord, — this same Kookoo, — is in the 


274 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


group. He hurls himself into the house and up 
the stairs. “ Fifteen years pass since he have 
been in those room ! ” He arrives at the door — 
it is shut — “ It is lock ! ” 

In short, further investigation revealed that a 
youngish lady in black, who had been seen by 
several neighbors to enter the house, but had not, 
of course, been suspected of such remarkable in- 
tentions, had, in company with a middle-aged 
slave-woman, taken these two rooms, and now, at 
the slightly-opened door, proffered a month’s rent 
in advance. What could a landlord do but smile ? 
Yet there was a pretext left; “the rooms must 
need repairs ? ” — “ No, sir ; he could look in and 
see.” Joy! he looked in. All was neatness. The 
floor unbroken, the walls cracked but a little, and 
the cracks closed with new plaster, no doubt by 
the jealous hand of ’Sieur George himself. Koo- 
koo’s eyes swept sharply round the two apart- 
ments. The furniture was all there. Moreover, 
there was Monsieur’s little hair-trunk. He should 
not soon forget that trunk. One day, fifteen years 
or more before, he had taken hold of that trunk to 
assist Monsieur to arrange his apartment, and 
Monsieur had drawn his fist back and cried to 
him to “drop it! ” Mais! there it was, looking 
very suspicious in Kookoo’s eyes, and the lady’s 
domestic, as tidy as a yellow-bird, went and sat on 
it. Could that trunk contain treasure ? It might, 
for Madame wanted to shut the door, and, in fact, 
did so. 


'SIEUR GEORGE 


275 


The lady was quite handsome — had been more 
so, but was still young — spoke the beautiful lan- 
guage, and kept, in the inner room, her discreet 
and taciturn mulattress, a tall, straight woman, 
with a fierce eye, but called by the young Creoles 
of the neighborhood “ confound’ good lookin’.” 

Among les Americaines, where the new neigh- 
bor always expects to be called upon by the older 
residents, this lady might have made friends in 
spite of being as reserved as ’Sieur George; but 
the reverse being the Creole custom, and she being 
well pleased to keep her own company, chose 
mystery rather than society. 

The poor landlord was sorely troubled; it must 
not that any thing de trop take place in his house. 
He watched the two rooms narrowly, but without 
result, save to find that Madame plied her needle 
for pay, spent her money for little else besides 
harpstrings, and took good care of the little trunk 
of Monsieur. This espionage was a good turn to 
the mistress and maid, for when Kookoo an- 
nounced that all was proper, no more was said by 
outsiders. Their landlord never got but one ques- 
tion answered by the middle-aged maid: 

“ Madame, he feared, was a litt’ bit embarrass’ 
pour money, eh ? ” 

Non ; Mademoiselle [Mademoiselle, you no- 
tice ! ] had some property, but did not want to eat 
it up.” 

Sometimes lady-friends came, in very elegant pri- 
vate carriages, to see her, and one or two seemed 


276 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


to beg her — but in vain — to go away with them ; 
but these gradually dropped off, until lady and 
servant were alone in the world. And so years, 
and the Mexican war, went by. 

The volunteers came home ; peace reigned, and 
the city went on spreading up and down the land; 
but ’Sieur George did not return. It overran the 
country like cocoa-grass. Fields, roads, wood- 
lands, that were once ’Sieur George’s places of re- 
treat from mankind, were covered all over with 
little one-story houses in the “ Old Third,” and 
fine residences and gardens up in “Lafayette.” 
Streets went slicing like a butcher’s knife, through 
old colonial estates, whose first masters never 
dreamed of the city reaching them, — and ’Sieur 
George was still away. The four-story brick got 
old and ugly, and the surroundings dim and 
dreamy. Theatres, processions, dry-goods stores, 
government establishments, banks, hotels, and all 
spirit of enterprise were gone to Canal Street and 
beyond, and the very beggars were gone with 
them. The little trunk got very old and bald, 
and still its owner lingered ; still the lady, some- 
what the worse for lapse of time, looked from the 
balcony- window in the brief southern twilights, 
and the maid every morning shook a worn rug or 
two over the dangerous-looking railing ; and yet 
neither had made friends or enemies. 

The two rooms, from having been stingily kept 
at first, were needing repairs half the time, and the 
occupants were often moving, now into one, now 


'SIEUR GEORGE 


277 


back into the other ; yet the hair-trunk was seen 
only by glimpses, the landlord, to his infinite cha- 
grin, always being a little too late in offering his 
services, the women, whether it was light or heavy, 
having already moved it. He thought it signifi- 
cant. 

Late one day of a most bitter winter, — that sea- 
son when, to the ecstatic amazement of a whole 
city-full of children, snow covered the streets 
ankle-deep, — there came a soft tap on the corri- 
dor door of this pair of rooms. The lady opened 
it, and beheld a tall, lank, iron-gray man, a total 
stranger, standing behind — Monsieur George! 
Both men were weather-beaten, scarred, and tat- 
tered. Across ’Sieur George’s crown, leaving a 
long, bare streak through his white hair, was the 
souvenir of a Mexican sabre. 

The landlord had accompanied them to the door : 
it was a magnificent opportunity. Mademoiselle 
asked them all in, and tried to furnish a seat to 
each; but failing, ’Sieur George went straight 
across the room and sat on the hair-triink. The 
action was so conspicuous, the landlord laid it up 
in his penetrative mind. 

’Sieur George was quiet, or, as it appeared, qui- 
eted. The mulattress stood near him, and to her 
he addressed, in an undertone, most of the little 
he said, leaving Mademoiselle to his companion. 
The stranger was a warm talker, and seemed to 
please the lady from the first ; but if he pleased, 
nothing else did. Kookoo, intensely curious. 


278 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


sought some pretext for staying, but found none. 
They were, altogether, an uncongenial company. 
The lady seem.ed to think Kookoo had no busi- 
ness there; ’Sieur George seemed to think the 
same concerning his companion; and the few 
words between Mademoiselle and ’Sieur George 
were cool enough. The maid appeared nearly 
satisfied, but could not avoid casting an anxious 
eye at times upon her mistress. Naturally the 
visit was short. 

The next day but one the two gentlemen came 
again in better attire. ’Sieur George evidently 
disliked his companion, yet would not rid himself 
of him. The stranger was a gesticulating, stagy 
fellow, much Monsieur’s junior, an incessant talker 
in Creole-French, always excited on small matters 
and unable to appreciate a great one. Once, as 
they were leaving, Kookoo, — accidents will hap- 
pen, — was under the stairs. As they began to 
descend the tall man was speaking ; “ — better to 
bury it,” — the startled landlord heard him say, 
and held his breath, thinking of the trunk ; but no 
more was uttered. 

A week later they came again. 

A week later they came again. 

A week later they came yet again ! 

The landlord’s eyes began to open. There must 
be a courtship in progress. It was very plain now 
why ’Sieur George had wished not to be accom- 
panied by the tall gentleman ; but since his visits 
had become regular and frequent, it was equally 


'SIEUR GEORGE 


279 


plain why he did not get rid of him; — because it 
would not look well to be going and coming too 
often alone. Maybe it was only this tender passion 
that the tall man had thought “ better to bury.” 
Lately there often came sounds of gay conversation 
from the first of the two rooms, which had been 
turned into a parlor ; and as, week after week, the 
friends came down-stairs, the tall man was always 
in high spirits and anxious to embrace ’Sieur 
George, who, — “ sly dog,” thought the landlord, — 
would try to look grave, and only smiled in an 
embarrassed way. “ Ah ! Monsieur, you tink to 
be varry conning; mais you not so conning as 
Kookoo, no ;” and the inquisitive little man would 
shake his head and smile, and shake his head again, 
as a man has a perfect right to do under the con- 
viction that he has been for twenty years baffled 
by a riddle and is learning to read it at last ; he 
had guessed what was in ’Sieur George’s head, he 
would by and by guess what was in the trunk. 

A few months passed quickly away, and it be- 
came apparent to every eye in or about the ancient 
mansion that the landlord’s guess was not so bad ; 
in fact, that Mademoiselle was to be married. 

On a certain rainy spring afternoon, a single 
hired hack drove up to the main entrance of the 
old house, and after some little bustle and the 
gathering of a crowd of damp children about the 
big doorway, ’Sieur George, muffled in a newly- 
repaired overcoat, jumped out and went up-stairs. 
A moment later he re-appeared, leading Madem- 


28 o 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


oiselle, wreathed and veiled, down the stairway. 
Very fair was Mademoiselle still. Her beauty 
was mature, — fully ripe, — maybe a little too much 
so, but only a little ; and as she came down with 
the ravishing odor of bridal flowers floating about 
her, she seemed the garlanded victim of a pagan 
sacrifice. The mulattress in holiday gear followed 
behind. 

The landlord owed a duty to the community. 
He arrested the maid on the last step: “Your 
mistress, she goin’ pour viarier ’Sieur George ? It 
make me glad, glad, glad ! ” 

“Marry ’Sieur George? Non, Monsieur.” 

“ Non ? Not marrie ’Sieur George ? Mais com- 
ment? ” 

“ She’s going to marry the tall gentleman.” 

“ Diable / ze long gentyman ! ” — With his hands 
upon his forehead, he watched the carriage trundle 
away. It passed out of sight through the rain ; 
he turned to enter the house, and all at once tot- 
tered under the weight of a tremendous thought 
— they had left the trunk! He hurled himself 
up-stairs as he had done seven years before, but 
again — “Ah, bah ! ! ” — the door was locked, and 
not a picayune of rent due. 

Late that night a small square man, in a wet 
overcoat, fumbled his way into the damp entrance 
of the house, stumbled up the cracking stairs, un- 
locked, after many languid efforts, the door of the 
two rooms, and falling over the hair-trunk, slept 
until the morning sunbeams climbed over the bal- 


'SIEUR GEORGE 


281 


cony and in at the window, and shone full on the 
back of his head. Old Kookoo, passing the door 
just then, was surprised to find it slightly ajar — 
pushed it open silently, and saw, within, ’Sieur 
George in the act of rising from his knees beside 
the mysterious trunk ! He had come back to be 
once more the tenant of the two rooms. 

’Sieur George, for the second time, was a changed 
man — changed from bad to worse; from being 
retired and reticent, he had come, by reason of 
advancing years, or mayhap that which had left the 
terrible scar on his face, to be garrulous. When, 
once in a while, employment sought him (for he 
never sought employment), whatever remunera- 
tion he received went its way for something that 
left him dingy and threadbare. He now made a 
lively acquaintance with his landlord, as, indeed, 
with every soul in the neighborhood, and told all 
his adventures in Mexican prisons and Cuban 
cities ; including full details of the hardships and 
perils experienced jointly with the “ long gentle- 
man ” who had married Mademoiselle, and who was 
no Mexican or Cuban, but a genuine Louisianian. 

“ It was he that fancied me,” he said, “not I 
him; but once he had fallen in love with me I 
hadn’t the force to cast him off. How Madame 
ever should have liked him was one of those 
woman’s freaks that a man mustn’t expect to un- 
derstand. He was no more fit for her than rags 
are fit for a queen ; and I could have choked his 
head off the night he hugged me round the neck 


282 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


and told me what a suicide she had committed. 
But other fine women are committing that same 
folly every day, only they don’t wait until they’re 
thirty-four or five to do it. — ‘Why don’t I like 
him ? ’ Well, for one reason, he’s a drunkard ! ” 
Here Kookoo, whose imperfect knowledge of 
English prevented his intelligent reception of the 
story, would laugh as if the joke came in just at 
this point. 

However, with all Monsieur’s prattle, he never 
dropped a word about the man he had been be- 
fore he went away ; and the great hair-trunk puz- 
zle was still the same puzzle, growing greater 
every day. 

Thus the two rooms had been the scene of some 
events quite queer, if not really strange ; but the 
queerest that ever they presented, I guess, was 
’Sieur George coming in there one day, crying 
like a little child, and bearing in his arms an in- 
fant — a girl — the lovely offspring of the drunkard 
whom he so detested, and poor, robbed, spirit- 
broken and now dead Madame. He took good 
care of the orphan, for orphan she was very soon. 
The long gentleman was pulled out of the Old 
Basin one morning, and ’Sieur George identified 
the body at the Treme station. He never hired a 
nurse — the father had sold the lady’s maid quite 
out of sight ; so he brought her through all the 
little ills and around all the sharp corners of baby- 
life and childhood, without a human hand to help 
him, until one evening, having persistently shut 


'SIEUR GEORGE 


283 


his eyes to it for weeks and months, like one trying 
to sleep in the sunshine, he awoke to the realiza- 
tion that she was a woman. It was a smoky one 
in November, the first cool day of autumn. The 
sunset was dimmed by the smoke of burning prai- 
ries, the air was full of the ashes of grass and 
reeds, ragged urchins were lugging home sticks of 
cordwood, and when a bit of coal fell from a cart 
in front of Kookoo’s old house, a child was boxed 
half across the street and robbed of the booty by 
a blanchisseuse de fin from over the way. 

The old man came home quite steady. He 
mounted the stairs smartly without stopping to 
rest, went with a step unusually light and quiet to 
his chamber and sat by the window opening upon 
the rusty balcony. 

It was a small room, sadly changed from what 
it had been in old times ; but then so was ’Sieur 
George. Close ajid dark it was, the walls stained 
with dampness and the ceiling full of bald places 
that showed the lathing. The furniture was cheap 
and meagre, including conspicuously the small, 
curious-looking hair-trunk. The floor was of 
wide slabs fastened down with spikes, and sloping 
up and down in one or two broad undulations, as 
if they had drifted far enough down the current of 
time to feel the tide-swell. 

However, the floor was clean, the bed well made, 
the cypress table in place, and the musty smell of 
the walls partly neutralized by a geranium on the 
window-sill. 


284 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


He so coming in and sitting down, an unseen 
person called from the room adjoining (of v,^hich, 
also, he was still the rentee), to know if he were 
he, and being answered in the affirmative, said, 
“ Papa George, guess who was here to-day ? ” 

“ Kookoo, for the rent ? ” 

“ Yes, but he will not come back.” 

“ No ? why not ? ” 

“ Because you will not pay him.” 

“ No ? and why not ? ” 

“ Because I have paid him.” 

“ Impossible! where did you get the money ? ” 
“ Cannot guess ? — Mother Nativity.” 

“ What, not for embroidery? ” 

“No? and why not? Mais oui !" — saying 
which, and with a pleasant laugh, the speaker en- 
tered the room. She was a girl of sixteen or 
thereabout, very beautiful, with very black hair 
and eyes. A face and form more entirely out of 
place you could not have found in the whole city. 
She sat herself at his feet, and, with her interlocked 
hands upon his knee, and her face, full of childish 
innocence mingled with womanly wisdom, turned 
to his, appeared for a time to take principal part 
in a conversation which, of course, could not be 
overheard in the corridor outside. 

Whatever was said, she presently rose, he opened 
his arms, and she sat on his knee and kissed him. 
This done, there was a silence, both smiling pen- 
sively and gazing out over the rotten balcony into 
the street. After a while she started up, saying 


'SIEUR GEORGE 


285 


something about the change of weather, and, slip- 
ping away, thrust a match between the bars of the 
grate. The old man turned about to the fire, and 
she from her little room brought a low sewing- 
chair and sat beside him, laying her head on his 
knee, and he stroking her brow with his brown 
palm. 

And then, in an altered — a low, sad tone — he 
began a monotonous recital. 

Thus they sat, he talking very steadily and 
she listening, until all the neighborhood was 
wrapped in slumber, — all the neighbors, but not 
Kookoo. 

Kookoo in his old age had become a great 
eavesdropper ; his ear and eye took turns at the 
keyhole that night, for he tells things that were 
not intended for outside hearers. He heard the 
girl sobbing, and the old man saying, “ But you 
must go now. You cannot stay with me safely or 
decently, much as I wish it. The Lord only 
knows how I’m to bear it, or where you’re to go; 
but He’s your Lord, child, and He’ll make a place 
for you. I was your grandfather’s death ; I frit- 
tered your poor, dead mother’s fortune away : let 
that be the last damage I do. 

“ I have always meant everything for the best,” 
he added half in soliloquy. 

From all Kookoo could gather, he must have 
been telling her the very story just recounted. 
She had dropped quite to the floor, hiding her face 
in her hands, and was saying between her sobs. 


286 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


“ I cannot go, Papa George ; oh, Papa George, 
I cannot go ! ” 

Just then ’Sieur George, having kept a good 
resolution all day, was encouraged by the orphan’s 
pitiful tones to contemplate the most senseless act 
he ever attempted to commit. He said to the 
sobbing girl that she was not of his blood ; that 
she was nothing to him by natural ties-; that his 
covenant was with her grandsire to care for his 
offspring ; and though it had been poorly kept, it 
might be breaking it worse than ever to turn her 
out upon ever so kind a world. 

“ I have tried to be good to you all these years. 
When I took you, a wee little baby, I took you for 
better or worse. I intended to do well by you all 
your childhood- days, and to do best at last. I 
thought surely we should be living well by this 
time, and you could choose from a world full of 
homes and a world full of friends. 

“ I don’t see how I missed it ! ” Here he paused 
a moment in meditation, and presently resumed 
with some suddenness ; 

“ I thought that education, far better than Mother 
Nativity has given you, should have afforded your 
sweet charms a noble setting; that good moth- 
ers and sisters would be wanting to count you 
into their families, and that the blossom of a 
happy womanhood would open perfect and full of 
sweetness. 

“ I would have given my life for it. I did give 
it, such as it was ; but it was a very poor concern. 


•SIEUR GEORGE 287 

I know — my life — and not enough to buy any 
good thing. 

“ I have had a thought of something, but I’m 
afraid to tell it. It didn’t come to me to-day or 
yesterday; it has beset me a long time — for 
months.” 

The girl gazed into the embers, listening in- 
tensely. . 

“ And oh ! dearie, if I could only get you to 
think the same way, you might stay with me then.” 

“ How long ? ” she asked, without stirring. 

“ Oh, as long as heaven should let us. But 
there is only one chance,” he said, as it were feel- 
ing his way, “ only one way for us to stay together. 
Do you understand me ? ” 

She looked up at the old man with a glance of 
painful inquiry. 

“ If you could be — my wife, dearie ? ” 

She uttered a low, distressful cry, and, gliding 
swiftly into her room, for the first time in her 
young life turned the key between them. 

And the old man sat and wept. 

Then Kookoo, peering through the keyhole, 
saw that they had been looking into the little 
trunk. The lid was up, but the back was toward 
the door, and he could see no more than if it had 
been closed. 

He stooped and stared into the aperture until 
his dry old knees were ready to crack. It seemed 
as if ’Sieur George was stone, only stone couldn’t 
weep like that. 


388 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


Every separate bone in his neck was hot with 
pain. He would have given ten dollars — ten 
sweet dollars! — to have seen ’Sieur George get 
up and turn that trunk around. 

There ! ’Sieur George rose up — what a face ! 

He started toward the bed, and as he came to 
the trunk he paused, looked at it, muttered some- 
thing about “ ruin,” and something about “ fort- 
une,” kicked the lid down and threw himself 
across the bed. 

Small profit to old Kookoo that he went to his 
own couch ; sleep was not for the little landlord. 
For well-nigh half a century he had suspected his 
tenant of having a treasure hidden in his house, 
and to-night he had heard his own admission 
that in the little trunk was a fortune. Kookoo 
had never felt so poor in all his days before. He 
felt a Creole’s anger, too, that a tenant should be 
the holder of wealth while his .landlord suffered 
poverty. 

And he knew very well, too, did Kookoo, what 
the tenant would do. If he did not know what he 
kept in the trunk, he knew what he kept behind 
it, and he knew he would take enough of it to- 
night to make him sleep soundly. 

No one would ever have supposed Kookoo 
capable of a crime. He was too fearfully im- 
pressed with the extra-hazardous risks of dishon- 
esty; he was old, too, and weak, and, besides all, 
intensely a coward. Nevertheless, while it was 
yet two or three hours before daybreak, the sleep- 


'SIEUR GEORGE 


289 


forsaken little man arose, shuffled into his gar- 
ments, and in his stocking-feet sought the corridor 
leading to ’Sieur George’s apartment. The No- 
vember night, as it often does in that region, had 
grown warm and clear ; the stars were sparkling 
like diamonds pendent in the deep blue heavens, 
and at every window and lattice and cranny the 
broad, bright moon poured down its glittering 
beams upon the hoary-headed thief, as he crept 
along the mouldering galleries and down the 
ancient corridor that led to ’Sieur George’s 
chamber. 

’Sieur George’s door, though ever so slowly 
opened, protested with a loud creak. The land- 
lord, wet with cold sweat from head to foot, and 
shaking till the floor trembled, paused for several 
minutes, and then entered the moon-lit apartment. 
The tenant, lying as if he had not moved, was 
sleeping heavily. And now the poor coward 
trembled so, that to kneel before the trunk, with- 
out falling, he did not know how. Twice, thrice, 
he was near tumbling headlong. He became as 
cold as ice. But the sleeper stirred, and the 
thought of losing his opportunity strung his 
nerves up in an instant. He went softly down 
upon his knees, laid his hands upon the lid, lifted 
it, and let in the intense moonlight. The trunk 
was full, full, crowded down and running over 
full, of the tickets of the Havana Lottery! 

A little after daybreak, Kookoo from his window 
saw the orphan, pausing on the corner. She stood 


290 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


for a moment, and then . dove into the dense fog 
>vhich had floated in from the river, and disap- 
peared. He never saw her again. 

But her Lord is taking care of her. Once only 
she has seen ’Sieur George. She had been in the 
belvedere of the house which she now calls home, 
looking down upon the outspread city. Far away 
southward and westward the great river glistened 
in the sunset. Along its sweeping bends the chim- 
neys of a smoking commerce, the magazines of 
surplus wealth, the gardens of the opulent, the 
steeples of a hundred sanctuaries and thousands 
on thousands of mansions and hovels covered the 
fertile birthright arpents which ’Sieur George, in 
his fifty years’ stay, had seen tricked away from 
dull colonial Esaus by their blue-eyed brethren of 
the North. Nearer by she looked upon the for- 
lornly silent region of lowly dwellings, neglected 
by legislation and shunned by all lovers of com- 
fort, that once had been the smiling fields of her 
own grandsire’s broad plantation ; and but a little 
way off, trudging across the marshy commons, her 
eye caught sight of ’Sieur George following the 
sunset out upon the prairies to find a night’s rest 
in the high grass. 

She turned at once, gathered the skirt of her 
pink calico uniform, and, watching her steps 
through her tears, descended the steep winding- 
stair to her frequent kneeling-place under the 
fragrant candles of the chapel-altar in Mother 
Nativity’s asylum. 


'SIEUR GEORGE 


291 


’Sieur George is houseless. He cannot find the 
orphan. Mother Nativity seems to know nothing 
of her. If he could find her now, and could get 
from her the use of ten dollars for but three days, 
he knows a combination which would repair all the 
past ; it could not fail, he — thinks. But he cannot 
find her, and the letters he writes — all containing 
the one scheme — disappear in the mail-box, and 
there’s an end. 




MADAME DfiLICIEUSE 











MADAME DfiLICIEUSE 


UST adjoining the old Cafe de Poesie 
on the corner, stood the little one-story^ 
yellow-washed tenement of Dr. Mossy, 
with its two glass doors protected by 
batten shutters, and its low, weed-grown tile roof 
sloping out over the sidewalk. You were very 
likely to find the Doctor in, for he was a great stu- 
dent and rather negligent of his business — as busi- 
ness. He was a small, sedate. Creole gentleman of 
thirty or more, with a young-old face and manner 
that provoked instant admiration. He would re- 
ceive you — be you who you may — in a mild, can- 
did manner, looking into your face with his deep 
blue eyes, and re-assuring you with a modest, amia- 
ble smile, very sweet and rare on a man’s mouth. 

To be frank, the Doctor’s little establishment 
was dusty and disorderly — very. It was curious 
to see the jars, and jars, and jars. In them were 
serpents and hideous fishes and precious speci- 
mens of many sorts. There were stuffed birds on 
295 




296 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


broken perches ; and dried lizards, and eels, and 
little alligators, and old skulls with their crowns 
sawed off, and ten thousand odd scraps of writing- 
paper strewn with crumbs of lonely lunches, and 
interspersed with long-lost spatulas and rust-eaten 
lancets. 

All New Orleans, at least all Creole New Or- 
leans, knew, and yet did not know, the dear little 
Doctor. So gentle, so kind, so skilful, so patient, 
so lenient ; so careless of the rich and so attentive 
to the poor ; a man, all in all, such as, should 
you once love him, you would love forever. So 
very learned, too, but with apparently no idea of 
how to show himself io his social profit, — two feat- 
ures much more smiled at than respected, not to 
say admired, by a people remote from the seats of 
learning, and spending most of their esteem upon 
animal heroisms and exterior display. 

“ Alas ! ” said his wealthy acquaintances, “ what 
a pity; when he might as well be rich.” 

“ Yes, his father has plenty.” 

“ Certainly, and gives it freely. But intends 
his son shall see none of it.” 

“His son? You dare not so much as mention 
him.” 

“ Well, well, how strange ! But they can never 
agree — not even upon their name. Is not that 
droll ? — a man named General Villivicencio, and 
his son. Dr. Mossy ! ” 

“ Oh, that is nothing ; it is only that the Doctor 
drops the de Villivicencio.^^ 


MADAME D£LICJEUSE 


297 


“ Drops the de Villivicencio ? but I think the 
de Villivicencio drops him, ho, ho, ho, — diable 

Next to the residence of good Dr. Mossy tow- 
ered the narrow, red- brick-front mansion of young 
Madame D^licieuse, firm friend at once and always 
of those two antipodes, General Villivicencio and 
Dr. Mossy. Its dark, covered carriage-way was 
ever rumbling, and, with nightfall, its drawing- 
rooms always sent forth a luxurious light from 
the lace-curtained windows of the second-story 
balconies. 

It was one of the sights of the Rue Royale to 
see by night its tall, narrow outline reaching high 
up toward the stars, with all its windows aglow. 

The Madame had had some tastes of human ex- 
perience ; had been betrothed at sixteen (to a man 
she did not love, “being at that time a fool,” as 
she said) ; one summer day at noon had been a 
bride, and at sundown — a widow. Accidental 
discharge of the tipsy bridegroom’s own pistol. 
Pass it by ! It left but one lasting effect on her, a 
special detestation of quarrels and weapons. 

The little maidens whom poor parentage has 
doomed to sit upon street door-sills and nurse their 
infant brothers have a game of “choosing” the 
beautiful ladies who sweep by along the pave- 
ment ; but in Rue Royale there was no choosing; 
every little damsel must own Madame D^icieuse 
or nobody, and as that richly adorned and regal 
favorite of old General Villivicencio came along 
they would lift their big, bold eyes away up to her 


298 OLD CREOLE DAYS 

face and pour forth their admiration in a universal 
— “Ah-h.h-h! ” 

But, mark you, she was good Madame D^li- 
cieuse as well as fair Madame D^licieuse : her 
principles, however, not constructed in the austere 
Anglo-Saxon style, exactly (what need, with the 
lattice of the Confessional not a stone’s-throw 
off?). Her kind offices and beneficent schemes 
were almost as famous as General Villivicencio’s 
splendid alms ; if she could at times do what the 
infantile Washington said he could not, why, no 
doubt she and her friends generally looked upon 
it as a mere question of enterprise. 

She had charms, too, of intellect — albeit not 
such a sinner against time and place as to be an 
“educated woman ’’ — charms that, even in a 
plainer person, would have brought down the half 
of New Orleans upon one knee, with both hands 
on the left side. She had the 'whole city at her 
feet, and, with the fine tact which was the perfec- 
tion of her character, kept it there contented. 
Madame was, in short, one of the kind that grace- 
fully wrest from society the prerogative of doing 
as they please, and had gone even to such extrav- 
agant lengths as driving out in the Atnericain fau- 
bourg, learning the English tongue, talking national 
politics, and similar freaks whereby she provoked 
the unbounded worship of her less audacious lady 
friends. In the centre of the cluster of Creole 
beauties which everywhere gathered about her, 
and, most of all, in those incomparable companies 


MADAME D^LICIEUSE 


299 


which assembled in her own splendid drawing- 
rooms, she was always queen lily. Her house, 
her drawing-rooms, etc. ; for the little brown aunt 
who lived with her was a mere piece of curious 
furniture. 

There was this notable charm about Madame 
D^licieuse, she improved by comparison. She 
never looked so grand as when, hanging on Gen- 
eral Villivicencio’s arm at some gorgeous ball, 
these two bore down on you like a royal barge 
lashed to a ship-of-the-line. She never looked so 
like her sweet name, as when she seated her pret- 
tiest lady adorers close around her, and got them 
all a-laughing. 

Of the two balconies which overhung the ban- 
quette on the front of the Delicieuse house, one 
was a small affair, and the other a deeper and 
broader one, from which Madame and her ladies 
were wont upon gala days to wave handkerchiefs 
and cast flowers to the friends in the processions. 
There they gathered one Eighth of January morn- 
ing to see the military display. It was a bright 
blue day, and the group that quite filled the bal- 
cony had laid wrappings aside, as all flower-buds 
are apt to do on such Creole January days, and 
shone resplendent in spring attire. 

The sight-seers passing below looked up by 
hundreds and smiled at the ladies’ eager twitter, 
as, flirting in humming-bird fashion from one sub- 
ject to another, they laughed away the half-hours 
waiting for the pageant. By and by they fell a-list- 


300 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


ening, for Madame Delicieuse had begun a narra- 
tive concerning Dr. Mossy. She sat somewhat 
above her listeners, her elbow on the arm of her 
chair, and her plump white hand waving now and 
then in graceful gesture, they silently attending 
with eyes full of laughter and lips starting apart. 

“ Vous savez^'' she said (they conversed in 
French of course), “ you know it is now long that 
Dr. Mossy and his father have been in disaccord. 
Indeed, when have they not differed ? For, when 
Mossy was but a little boy, his father thought it 
hard that he was not a rowdy. He switched him 
once because he would not play with his toy gun 
and drum. He was not so high when his father 
wished to send him to Paris to enter the French 
army; but he would not go. We used to play 
often together on the banquette — for I am not so 
very many years younger than he, no indeed — 
and, if I wanted some fun, I had only to pull his 
hair and run into the house ; he would cry, and 
monsieur papa would come out with his hand 
spread open and” — 

Madame gave her hand a malicious little sweep, 
and joined heartily in the laugh which followed. 

“ That was when they lived over the way. But 
wait ! you shall see ; I have something. This 
evening the General ” — 

The houses of Rue Royale gave a start and rat- 
tled their windows. In the long, irregular line of 
balconies the beauty of the city rose up. Then 
the houses jumped again and the windows rattled ; 


MADAME d£LICIEUSE 


301 


Madame steps inside the window and gives a mes- 
sage which the housemaid smiles at in receiving. 
As she turns the houses shake again, and now 
again ; and now there comes a distant strain of 
trumpets, and by and by the drums and bayonets 
and clattering hoofs, and plumes and dancing ban- 
ners ; far down the long street stretch out the 
shining ranks of gallant men, and the fluttering, 
over-leaning swarms of ladies shower down their 
sweet favors and wave their countless welcomes. 

In the front, towering above his captains, rides 
General Villivicencio, veteran of 1814-15, and, with 
the gracious pomp of the old-time gentleman, lifts 
his cocked hat, and bows, and bows. 

Madame Delicieuse’s balcony was a perfect 
maze of waving kerchiefs. The General looked 
up for the woman of all women ; she was not 
there. But he remembered the other balcony, 
the smaller one, and cast his glance onward to it. 
There he saw Madame and one other person only. 
A small blue-eyed, broad-browed, scholarly-look- 
ing man whom the arch lady had lured from his 
pen by means of a mock professional summons, 
and who now stood beside her, a smile of pleasure 
playing on his lips and about his eyes. 

“ Viief ” said Madame, as the father’s eyes met 
the son’s. Dr. Mossy lifted his arm and cast a 
bouquet of roses. A girl in the crowd bounded 
forward, caught it in the air, and, blushing, handed 
it to the plumed giant. He bowed low, first to 
the girl,, then to the balcony above; and then. 


302 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


with a responsive smile, tossed up two splendid 
kisses, one to Madame, and one, it seemed — 

“ For what was that cheer? ” 

“ Why, did you not see ? General Villivicencio 
cast a kiss to his son.” 

The staff of General Villivicencio were a faithful 
few who had not bowed the knee to any abomina- 
tion of the Americainsy nor sworn deceitfully to 
any species of compromise ; their beloved city was 
presently to pass into the throes of an election, 
and this band, heroically unconscious of their fee- 
bleness, putting their trust in “ re-actions ” and 
like delusions, resolved to make one more stand 
for the traditions of their fathers. It was concern- 
ing this that Madame Ddicieuse was incidentally 
about to speak when interrupted by the boom of 
cannon ; they had promised to meet at her house 
that evening. 

They met. With very little discussion or delay 
(for their minds were made up beforehand), it was 
decided to announce in the French-English news- 
paper that, at a meeting of leading citizens, it had 
been thought consonant with the public interest to 
place before the people the name of General Her- 
cule Mossy de Villivicencio. No explanation was 
considered necessary. All had been done in strict 
accordance with time-honored customs, and if any 
one did not know it it was his own fault. No 
eulogium was to follow, no editorial indorsement. 
The two announcements were destined to stand 


MADAME D£lICIEUSE 


303 


next morning, one on the English side and one on 
the French, in severe simplicity, to be greeted 
with profound gratification by a few old gentlemen 
in blue cottonade, and by roars of laughter from a 
rampant majority. 

As the junto were departing, sparkling Madame 
Delicieuse detained the General at the head of the 
stairs that descended into the tiled carriage-way, to 
wish she was a man, that she might vote for him. 

“ But, General,” she said, “ had I not a beautiful 
bouquet of ladies on my balcony this morning? ” 

The General replied, with majestic gallantry, 
that “ it was as magnificent as could be expected 
with the central rose wanting.” And so Madame 
was disappointed, for she was trying to force the 
General to mention his son. “ I will bear this no 
longer ; he shall not rest,” she had said to her 
little aunt, “ until he has either kissed his son or 
quarrelled with him.” To which the aunt had an- 
swered that, '■^co'Ate que coH-te^ she need not cry 
about it ; ” nor did she. Though the General’s 
compliment had foiled her thrust, she answered 
gayly to the effect that enough was enough ; “ but, 
ah ! General,” dropping her voice to an undertone, 
“ if you had heard what some of those rosebuds 
said of you ! ” 

The old General pricked up like a country beau. 
Madame laughed to herself, “ Monsieur Peacock, 
I have thee ; ” but aloud she said gravely : 

“Come into the drawing-room, if you please, 
and seat yourself. You must be greatly fatigued. ” 


304 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


The friends who waited below overheard the in- 
vitation. 

Au revoiry CenSraly^ said they. 

“ Au revoiry Messieurs,” he answered, and fol- 
lowed the lady. 

“ General,” said she, as if her heart were over- 
flowing, “ you have been spoken against. Please 
sit down.” 

“ Is that true, Madame ? ” 

“ Yes, General.” 

She sank into a luxurious chair. 

“ A lady said to-day — but you will be angry 
with me, General.” 

“ With you, Madame ? That is not possible.” 

“ I do not love to make revelations. General; 
but when a noble friend is evil spoken of” — she 
leaned her brow upon her thumb and forefinger, 
and looked pensively at her slipper’s toe peeping 
out at the edge of her skirt on the rich carpet — 
“one’s heart gets very big.” 

“ Madame, you are an angel ! But what said 
she, Madame ? ” 

“ Well, General, I have to tell you the whole 
truth, if you will not be angry. We were all 
speaking at once of handsome men. She said to 
me : ‘ Well, Madame Delicieuse, you may say what 
you will of General Villivicencio, and I suppose it 
is true ; but everybody knows ’ — pardon me. Gen- 
eral, but just so she said — ‘ all the world knows 
he treats his son very badly.’ ” 

“ It is not true,” said the General. 


MADAME D£LICIEUSE 


305 


“ If I wasn’t angry ! ” said Madame, making a 
pretty fist. ‘ How can that be ? ’ I said. ‘ Well,’ 
she said, ‘ mamma says he has been angry with his 
son for fifteen years. ’ ‘ But what did his son do ? ’ 
I said. ‘Nothing,’ said she. ^ Ma foi,^ I said, 
‘ me, I too would be angry if my son had done 
nothing for fifteen years ’ — ho, ho, ho ! ” 

“ It is not true,” said the General. 

The old General cleared his throat, and smiled 
as by compulsion. 

“You know. General,” said Madame, looking 
distressed, “ it was nothing to joke about, but I 
had to say so, because I did not know what your 
son had done, nor did I wish to hear any thing 
against one who has the honor to call you his 
father.” 

She paused a moment to let the flattery take 
effect, and then proceeded: 

“ But then another lady said to me ; she said, 
‘ For shame, Clarisse, to laugh at good Dr. Mossy; 
nobody — neither General Villivicencio, neither 
any other, has a right to be angry against that 
noble, gentle, kind, brave’” — 

“ Brave ! ” said the General, with a touch of 
irony. 

“ So she said,” answered Madame D^licieuse, 
“ and I asked her, ‘ how brave ? ’ ‘ Brave ? ’ she 

said, ‘ why, braver than any soldier^ in tending the 
small-pox, the cholera, the fevers, and all those 
horrible things. Me, I saw his father once run 
from a snake ; I think he wouldn’t fight the small- 


3o6 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


pox — my faith ! ’ she said, ‘ they say that Dr. 
Mossy does all that and never wears a scapula ! — 
and does it nine hundred and ninety-nine times in 
a thousand for nothing ! Is that brave, Madame 
D^licieuse, or is it not ? ’ — And, General, — what 
could I say ? ” 

Madame dropped her palms on either side of 
her spreading robes and waited pleadingly for an 
answer. There was no sound but the drumming 
of the General’s fingers on his sword-hilt. Ma- 
dame resumed: 

“ I said, ‘ I do not deny that Mossy is a noble 
gentleman ; ’ — I had to say that, had I not. Gen- 
eral ? ” 

“ Certainly, Madame,” said the General, “ my 
son is a gentleman, yes.” 

“ ‘ But,’ I said, ‘ he should not make Monsieur, 
his father, angry.’” 

“ True,” said the General, eagerly. 

“ But that lady said : ‘ Monsieur, his father, 
makes himself angry,’ she said. ‘ Do you know, 
Madame, why his father is angry so long ? ’ An- 
other lady says, ‘ I know ! ’ ‘For what ? ’ said I. 

‘ Because he refused to become a soldier ; mamma 
told me that.’ ‘ It cannot be ! ’ I said.” 

The General flushed. Madame saw it, but re- 
lentlessly continued: 

“ ‘ Mats oui,^ said that lady. ‘ What ! ’ I said, 
‘ think you General Villivicencio will not rather 
be the very man most certain to respect a son who 
has the courage to be his own master ? Oh, what 


MADAME DIlLICIEUSE 


307 


does he want with a poor fool of a son who will do 
only as he says ? You think he will love him less 
for healing instead of killing ? Mesdemoiselles, 
you do not know that noble soldier ! ’ ” 

The noble soldier glowed, and bowed his ac- 
knowledgments in a dubious, half remonstrative 
way, as if Madame might be producing material 
for her next confession, as, indeed, she diligently 
was doing ; but she went straight on once more, 
as a surgeon would. 

“ But that other lady said : ‘No, Madame, no, 
ladies ; but I am going to tell you why Monsieur, 
the General, is angry with his son.’ ‘ Very well, 
why? ’ — ‘ Why? It is just — because — he is — 
a little man ! ’” 

General Villivicencio stood straight up. 

“ Ah ! mon ami,” cried the lady, rising excitedly, 
“ I have wounded you and made you angry, with 
my silly revelations. Pardon me, my friend. Those 
were foolish girls, and, anyhow, they admired you. 
They said you looked glorious — grand — at the 
head of the procession.” 

Now, all at once, the General felt the tremen- 
dous fatigues of the day ; there was a wild, swim- 
ming, whirling sensation in his head that forced 
him to let his eyelids sink down ; yet, just there, 
in the midst of his painful bewilderment, he re- 
alized with ecstatic complacency that the most 
martial-looking man in Louisiana was standing in 
his spurs with the hand of Louisiana’s queenliest 
woman laid tenderly on his arm. 


3o8 


OLD CREOLE DA VS 


“ I am a wretched tattler ! ” said she. 

“ Ah ! no, Madame, you are my dearest friend, 
yes.” 

“ Well, anyhow, I called them fools. ‘ Ah ! in- 
nocent creatures,’ I said, ‘ think you a man of his 
sense and goodness, giving his thousands to the 
sick and afflicted, will cease to love his only son 
because he is not big like a horse or quarrelsome 
like a dog ? No, ladies, there is a great reason 
which none of you know.’ ‘Well, well,’ they 
cried, ‘ tell it ; he has need of a very good reason ; 
tell it now.’ ‘ My ladies,’ I said, ‘ I must not’ — 
for, General, for all the world I knew not a reason 
why you should be angry against your son ; you 
know. General, you have never told me.” 

The beauty again laid her hand on his arm and 
gazed, with round-eyed simplicity, into his sombre 
countenance. For an instant her witchery had 
almost conquered. 

“ Nay, Madame, some day I shall tell you ; I 
have more than one burden ^ere. But let me ask 
you to be seated, for I have a question, also, for 
you, which I have longed to ask. It lies heavily 
upon my heart ; I must ask it now. A matter of 
so great importance ” — 

Madame’s little brown aunt gave a faint cough 
from a dim corner of the room. 

“’Tis a beautiful night,” she remarked, and 
stepped out on the balcony. 

Then the General asked his question. It was 
a very long question, or, maybe, repeated twice or 


MADAME DMLICIEUSE 


309 


thrice; for it was fully ten minutes before he 
moved out of the room, saying good-evening. 

Ah ! old General Villivicencio. The most mar- 
tial-looking man in Louisiana ! But what would 
the people, the people who cheered in the morn- 
ing, have said, to see the fair Queen Delicieuse at 
the top of the stair, sweetly bowing you down into 
the starlight, — humbled, crestfallen, rejected ! 

The campaign opened. The Villivicencio ticket 
was read in French and English with the very dif- 
ferent sentiments already noted. In the Exchange, 
about the courts, among the “ banks,” there was 
lively talking concerning its intrinsic excellence 
and extrinsic chances. The young gentlemen who 
stood about the doors of the so-called “coffee- 
houses ” talked with a frantic energy alarming to 
any stranger, and just when you would have ex- 
pected to see them jump and bite large mouthfuls 
out of each other’s face, they would turn and en- 
ter the door, talking on in the same furious man- 
ner, and, walking up to the bar, click their glasses 
to the success of the Villivicencio ticket. Sundry 
swarthy and wrinkled remnants of an earlier gen- 
eration were still more enthusiastic. There was 
to be a happy renaissance ; a purging out of Yan- 
kee ideas ; a blessed home-coming of those good 
old Bourbon morals and manners which Yankee 
notions had expatriated. In the cheerfulness of 
their anticipations they even went the length of 
throwing their feet high in air, thus indicating how 


310 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


the Villivicencio ticket was going to give “ doze 
Am^ricains ” the kick under the nose. 

In the three or four weeks which followed, the 
General gathered a surfeit of adulation, notwith- 
standing which he was constantly and with pain 
imagining a confused chatter of ladies, and when 
he shut his eyes with annoyance, there was Ma- 
dame Delicieuse standing, and saying, “ I knew 
not a reason why you should be angry against 
your son,” gazing in his face with hardened sim- 
plicity, and then — that last scene on the stairs 
wherein he seemed still to be descending, down, 
down. 

Madame herself was keeping good her resolution. 

“ Now or never,” she said, “a reconciliation or 
a quarrel.” 

When the General, to keep up appearances, 
called again, she so moved him with an account of 
certain kindly speeches of her own invention, 
which she imputed to Dr. Mossy, that he prom- 
ised to call and see his son; “perhaps;” “pretty 
soon;” “probably.” 

Dr. Mossy, sitting one February morning among 
his specimens and books of reference, finishing a 
thrilling chapter on the cuticle, too absorbed to 
hear a door open, suddenly realized that some- 
thing was in his light, and, looking up, beheld 
General Villivicencio standing over him. Breath- 
ing a pleased sigh, he put down his pen, and, rising 
on tiptoe, laid his hand upon his father’s shoulder, 
and lifting his lips like a little wife, kissed him. 


MADAME DJ^LICIEUSE 


3 “ 


“ Be seated, papa,” he said, offering his own 
chair, and perching on the desk. 

The General took it, and, clearing his throat, 
gazed around upon the jars and jars with their 
little Adams and Eves in zoological gardens. 

“ Is all going well, papa ? ” finally asked Dr. 
Mossy. 

« Yes.” 

Then there was a long pause. 

“’Tis a beautiful day,” said the son. 

“ Very beautiful,” rejoined the father. 

“ I thought there would have been a rain, but it 
has cleared off,” said the son. 

“ Yes,” responded the father, and drummed on 
the desk. 

' “ Does it appear to be turning cool ? ” asked 
the son. 

“ No ; it does not appear to be turning cool at 
all,” was the answer. 

“ H’m ’m ! ” said Dr. Mossy. 

“ Hem ! ” said General Villivicencio. 

Dr. Mossy, not realizing his own action, stole a 
glance at his manuscript. 

“ I am interrupting you,” said the General, 
quickly, and rose. 

“No, no! pardon me; be seated; it gives me 
great pleasure to — I did not know what I was 
doing. It is the work with which I fill my leisure 
moments.” 

So the General settled down again, and father 
and son sat very close to each other — in a bodily 


312 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


sense; spiritually they were many miles apart. 
The General’s finger-ends, softly tapping the desk, 
had the sound of far-away drums. 

“ The city — it is healthy ? ” asked the General. 

“Did you ask me if” — said the little Doctor, 
starting and looking up. 

“ The city — it has not much sickness at pres- 
ent ? ” repeated the father. 

“No, yes — not much,” said Mossy, and, with 
utter unconsciousness, leaned down upon his el- 
bow and supplied an omitted word to the manu- 
script. 

The General was on his feet as if by the touch 
of a spring. 

“ I must go ! ” 

“ Ah ! no, papa,” said the son. 

“ But, yes, I must.” 

“ But wait, papa, I had just now something to 
speak of” — 

“Well?” said the General, standing with his 
hand on the door, and with rather a dark counte- 
nance. 

Dr. Mossy touched his fingers to his forehead, 
trying to remember. 

“ I fear I have — ah ! I rejoice to see your 
name before the public, dear papa, and at the head 
of the ticket.” 

The General’s displeasure sank down like an 
eagle’s feathers. He smiled thankfully, and 
bowed. 

“ My friends compelled me,” he said. 


MADAME D£LICIEUSE 


313 


“ They think you will be elected ? ” 

“ They will not doubt it. But what think you, 
my son ? ” 

Now the son had a conviction which it would 
have been madness to express, so he only said: 

“ They could not elect one more faithful.” 

The General bowed solemnly. 

“ Perhaps the people will think so ; my friends 
believe they will.” 

“ Your friends who have used your name should 
help you as much as they can, papa,” said the 
Doctor. " Myself, I should like to assist you, 
papa, if I could.” 

“ A-bah ! ” said the pleased father, incredu- 
lously. 

“ But, yes,” said the son. 

A thrill of delight filled the General’s frame. 
This was like a son. 

“ Thank you, my son ! I thank you much. Ah, 
Mossy, my dear boy, you make me happy ! ” 

“ But,” added Mossy, realizing with a tremor 
how far he had gone, “ I see not how it is pos- 
sible.” 

The General’s chin dropped. 

“ Not being a public man,” continued the Doc- 
tor ; “ unless, indeed, my pen — you might enlist 
my pen.” 

He paused with a smile of bashful inquiry. The 
General stood aghast for a moment, and then 
caught the idea. 

“Certainly! cer-tain-ly! ha, ha, ha!” — back- 


314 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


ing out of the door — “ certainly ! Ah ! Mossy, 
you are right, to be sure ; to make a complete 
world we must have swords and pens. Well, my 
son, ’•au revoir ; ’ no, I cannot stay — I will return. 
I hasten to tell my friends that the pen of Dr. 
Mossy is on our side ! Adieu, dear son.” 

Standing outside on the banquette he bowed — 
not to Dr. Mossy, but to the balcony of the big 
red-brick front — a most sunshiny smile, and de- 
parted. 

The very next morning, as if fate had ordered 
it, the Villivicencio ticket was attacked — am- 
bushed, as it were, from behind the Americain 
newspaper. The onslaught was — at least Gen- 
eral Villivicencio said it was — absolutely ruf- 
fianly. Never had all the lofty courtesies and 
formalities of chivalric contest been so completely 
ignored. Poisoned balls — at least personal epi- 
thets — were used. The General himself was 
called “ antiquated ! ” The friends who had nom- 
inated him, they were positively sneered at; 
dubbed “ fossils,” “ old ladies,” and their caucus 
termed “ irresponsible ” — thunder and lightning ! 
gentlemen of honor to be termed “ not respon- 
sible ! ” It was asserted that the nomination was 
made secretly, in a private house, by two or three 
unauthorized harum-scarums (that touched the 
very bone) who had with more caution than pro- 
priety withheld their names. The article was 
headed, “The Crayfish-eaters’ Ticket.” It con- 
tinued further to say that, had not the publication 


MADAME DALICIEUSE 


315 


of this ticket been regarded as a dull hoax, it would 
not have been suffered to pass for two weeks un- 
challenged, and that it was now high time the uni- 
versal wish should be realized in its withdrawal. 

Among the earliest readers of this production 
was the young Madame. She first enjoyed a quiet 
gleeful smile over it, and then called : 

“ Ninide, here, take this down to Dr. Mossy — 
stop.” She marked the communication heavily 
with her gold pencil. “ No answer ; he need not 
return it.” 

About the same hour, and in a neighboring 
street, one of the “ not responsibles ” knocked on 
the Villivicencio castle gate. The General invited 
him into his bedroom. With a short and strictly 
profane harangue the visitor produced the offen- 
sive newspaper, and was about to begin reading, 
when one of those loud nasal blasts, so peculiar to 
the Gaul, resounded at the gate, and another “not 
responsible ” entered, more excited, if possible, 
than the first. Several minutes were spent in ex- 
changing fierce sentiments and slapping the palm 
of the left hand rapidly with the back of the right. 
Presently there was a pause for breath. 

“ Alphonse, proceed to read,” said the General, 
sitting up in bed. 

“ De Crayfish-eaters’ Ticket ” — began Alphonse ; 
but a third rapping at the gate interrupted him, 
and a third “irresponsible ” re-enforced their num- 
ber, talking loudly and wildly to the waiting-man 
as he came up the hall. 


3i6 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


Finally, Alphonse read the article. Little by 
little the incensed gentlemen gave it a hearing, 
now two words and now three, interrupting it to 
rip out long, rasping maledictions, and wag their 
forefingers at each other as they strode ferociously 
about the apartment. 

As Alphonse reached the close, and dashed the 
paper to the floor, the whole quartet, in terrific 
unison, cried for the blood of the editor. 

But hereupon the General spoke with authority. 

“ No, Messieurs,” he said, buttoning his dress- 
ing-gown, savagely, “ you shall not fight him. I 
forbid it — you shall not ! ” 

“ But,” cried the three at once, “ one of us must 
fight, and you — you cannot ; if you fight our cause 
is lost ! The candidate must not fight.” 

“ Hah-h ! Messieurs,” cried the hero, beating his 
breast and lifting his eyes, grdce au del. I have 
a son. Yes, my beloved friends, a son who shall 
call the villain out and make him pay for his im- 
pudence with blood, or eat his words in to-morrow 
morning’s paper. Heaven be thanked that gave 
me a son for this occasion ! I shall see him at 
once — as soon as I can dress.” 

“ We will go with you.” 

“ No, gentlemen, let me see my son alone. I 
can meet you at Maspero’s in two hours. Adieu, 
my dear friends.” 

He was resolved. 

Au revoir,^^ said the dear friends. 

Shortly after, cane in hand. General Villivicencio 


MADAME D£LICIEUSE 


317 


moved with an ireful stride up the banquette of Rue 
Royale. Just as he passed the red-brick front one 
of the batten shutters opened the faintest bit, and 
a certain pair of lovely eyes looked after him, with- 
out any of that round simplicity which we have 
before discovered in them. As he half turned to 
knock at his son’s door he glanced at this very 
shutter, but it was as tightly closed as though the 
house were an enchanted palace. 

Dr. Mossy’s door, on the contrary, swung ajar 
when he knocked, and the General entered. 

“ Well, my son, have you seen that newspaper? 
No, I think not. I see you have not, since your 
cheeks are not red with shame and anger.” 

Dr. Mossy looked up with astonishment from 
the desk where he sat writing. 

“ What is that, papa ? ” 

“ My faith ! Mossy, is it possible you have not 
heard of the attack upon me, which has surprised 
and exasperated the city this morning? ” 

“No,” said Dr. Mossy, with still greater sur- 
prise, and laying his hand on the arm of his chair. 

His father put on a dying look. “ My soul ! ” 
At that moment his glance fell upon the paper 
which had been sent in by Madame D^licieuse. 
“ But, Mossy, my son,” he screamed, it is !” 

striking it rapidly with one finger — “ there ! there ! 
there ! read it ! It calls me ‘ not responsible ! ’ 

‘ not responsible ’ it calls me ! Read ! read ! ” 

“ But, papa,” said the quiet little Doctor, rising, 
and accepting the crumpled paper thrust at him, 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


318 

* I have read this. If this is it, well, then, already, 
I am preparing to respond to it.” 

The General seized him violently, and, spread- 
ing a suffocating kiss on his face, sealed it with an 
affectionate oath. 

“ Ah, Mossy, my boy, you are glorious ! You 
had begun already to write ! You are glorious ! 
Read to me what you have written, my son.” 

The Doctor took up a bit of manuscript, and re- 
suming his chair, began : 

“ Messrs. Editors : On your journal of this morning” — 

“ Eh ! how ! you have not written it in English, 
is it, son ? ” 

“ But, yes, papa.” 

“ ’Tis a vile tongue,” said the General ; “ but, 
if it is necessary — proceed.” 

“ Messrs. Editors : On your journal of this morning 
is published an editorial article upon the Villivicencio ticket, 
which is plentiful and abundant with mistakes. Who is the 
author or writer of the above said editorial article your cor- 
respondent does at present ignore, but doubts not he is 
one who, hasty to form an opinion, will yet, however, make 
his assent to the correction of some errors and mistakes 
which ” — 

“ Bah ! ” cried the General. 

Dr. Mossy looked up, blushing crimson. 

“ Bah ! ” cried the General, still more forcibly. 
“ B6tise ! ” 

“ How ? ” asked the gentle son. 

“ ’Tis all nonsent ! ” cried the General, bursting 
into English. “ Hall you ’ave to say is : ‘ ’Sieur 


MADAME D^LICIEUSE 


319 


Editeurs ! I want you s’ all give de nem of de in- 
dignan’ scoundrel who meek some lies on you’ pa- 
per about mon p^re et ses amis ! ” 

“ Ah-h ! ” said Dr. Mossy, in a tone of derision 
and anger. 

His father gazed at him in mute astonishment. 
He stood beside his disorderly little desk, his 
small form drawn up, a hand thrust into his 
breast, and that look of invincibility in his eyes 
such as blue eyes sometimes surprise us with. 

“You want me to fight,” he said. 

“ My faith ! ” gasped the General, loosening in 
all his joints. “ I believe — you may cut me in 
pieces if I do not believe you were going to reason 
it out in the newspaper ! Fight ? If I want you 
to fight ? Upon my soul, I believe you do not 
want to fight ! ” 

“ No,” said Mossy. 

“ My God ! ” whispered the General. His heart 
seemed to break. 

“ Yes,” said the steadily gazing Doctor, his lips 
trembling as he opened them. “ Yes, your God. 
I am afraid” — 

“ Afraid ! ” gasped the General. 

“ Yes,” rang out the Doctor, “ afraid ; afraid ! 
God forbid that I should not be afraid. But I will 
tell you what I do not fear — I do not fear to call 
your affairs of honor — murder ! ” 

“ My son ! ” cried the father. 

“ I retract,” cried the son ; “consider it unsaid. 
I will never reproach my father.” 


320 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


“ It is well,” said the father. “ I was wrong. 
It is my quarrel. I go to settle it myself.” 

Dr. Mossy moved quickly between his father 
and the door. General Villivicencio stood before 
him utterly bowed down. 

“ What will you ? ” sadly demanded the old 
man. 

“ Papa,” said the son, with much tenderness, 
“ I cannot permit you. Fifteen years we were 
strangers, and yesterday were friends. You must 
not leave me so. I will even settle this quarrel 
for you. You must let me. I am pledged to 
your service.” 

The peace-loving little doctor did not mean “ to 
settle,” but “to adjust.” He felt in an instant 
that he was misunderstood ; yet, as quiet people 
are apt to do, though not wishing to deceive, he 
let the misinterpretation stand. In his embar- 
rassment he did not know with absolute certainty 
what he should do himself. 

The father’s face — he thought of but one way 
to settle a quarrel — began instantly to brighten. 
“ I would myself do it,” he said, apologetically, 
“but my friends forbid it.” 

“ And so do I,” said the Doctor, “ but I will go 
myself now, and will not return until all is fin- 
ished. Give me the paper.” 

“ My son, I do not wish to compel you.” 

There was something acid in the Doctor’s smile 
as he answered : 

“ No; but give me the paper, if you please.” 


MADAME D^LICIEUSE 


321 


The General handed it. 

“ Papa,” said the son, “ you must wait here for 
my return.” 

But I have an appointment at Maspero’s 
at”— 

“ I will call and make excuse for you,” said the 
son. 

“ Well,” consented the almost happy father, 
“ go, my son ; I will stay. But if some of your 
sick shall call ? ” 

“ Sit quiet,” said the son. “ They will think no 
one is here.” And the General noticed that the 
dust lay so thick on the panes that a person out- 
side would have to put his face close to the glass 
to see within. 

In the course of half an hour the Doctor had 
reached the newspaper office, thrice addressed 
himself to the wrong person, finally found the 
courteous editor, and easily convinced him that 
his father had been imposed upon ; but when Dr. 
Mossy went farther, and asked which one of the 
talented editorial staff had written the article : 

“ You see. Doctor,” said the editor — “just step 
into my private office a moment.” 

They went in together. The next minute saw 
Dr. Mossy departing hurriedly from the place, 
while the editor complacently resumed his pen, 
assured that he would not return. 

General Villivicencio sat and waited among the 
serpents and innocents. His spirits began to 
droop again. Revolving Mossy’s words, he could 


322 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


not escape the fear that possibly, after all, his son 
might compromise the Villivicencio honor in the 
interests of peace. Not that he preferred to put 
his son’s life in jeopardy ; he would not object to 
an adjustment, provided the enemy should beg for 
it. But if not, whom would his son select to per- 
form those friendly offices indispensable in polite 
quarrels ? Some half-priest, half-woman ? Some 
spectacled book- worm ? He suffered. 

The monotony of his passive task was relieved 
by one or two callers who had the sagacity (or bad 
manners) to peer through the dirty glass, and then 
open the door, to whom, half rising from his chair, 
he answered, with a polite smile, that the Doctor 
was out, nor could he say how long he might be 
absent. Still the time dragged painfully, and he 
began at length to wonder why Mossy did not re- 
turn. 

There came a rap at the glass door different 
from all the raps that had forerun it — a fearless, 
but gentle, dignified, graceful rap ; and the Gen- 
eral, before he looked round, felt in all his veins 
that it came from the young Madame. Yes, there 
was her glorious outline thrown sidewise upon 
the glass. He hastened and threw open the door, 
bending low at the same instant, and extending 
his hand. 

She extended hers also, but not to take his. 
With a calm dexterity that took the General’s 
breath, she reached between him and the door, and 
closed it. 


MADAME D£LICIEUSE 


323 


What is the matter ? ” anxiously asked the 
General — for her face, in spite of its smile, was 
severe. 

“ General,” she began, ignoring his inquiry — 
and, with all her Creole bows, smiles, and insin- 
uating phrases, the severity of her countenance 
but partially waned — “I came to see my physi- 
cian — your son. Ah ! General, when I find you 
reconciled to your son, it makes me think I am in 
heaven. You will let me say so ? You will not 
be offended with the old playmate of your son ? ” 

She gave him no time to answer. 

" He is out, I think, is he not ? But I am glad 
of it. It gives us occasion to rejoice together over 
his many merits. For you know. General, in all 
the years of your estrangement, Mossy had no 
friend like myself. I am proud to tell you so 
now j is it not so ? ” 

The General was so taken aback that, when he 
had thanked her in a mechanical way, he could 
say nothing else. She seemed to fall for a little 
while into a sad meditation that embarrassed him 
beyond measure. But as he opened his mouth to 
speak, she resumed : 

“ Nobody knew him so well as I ; though I, 
poor me, I could not altogether understand him ; 
for look you. General, he was — what do you 
think ? — a great man f— noihxng less.” 

“ How ? ” asked the General, not knowing what 
else to respond. 

“ You never dreamed of that, eh ? ” continued 


324 


OLD CREOLE DA YS 


the lady. “ But, of course not ; nobody did but 
me. Some of those Americains, I suppose, knew 
it ; but who would ever ask them ? Here in 
Royal Street, in New Orleans, where we people 
know nothing and care nothing but for meat, 
drink, and pleasure, he was only Dr. Mossy, who 
gave pills. My faith ! General, no v/onder you 
were disappointed in your son, for you thought 
the same. Ah ! yes, you did ! But why did you 
not ask me, his old playmate ? I knew better. I 
could have told you how your little son stood head 
and shoulders above the crowd. I could have 
told you some things too wonderful to believe. I 
could have told you that his name was known and 
honored in the scientific schools of Paris, of Lon- 
don, of Germany ! Yes ! I could have shown you ” 
— she warmed as she proceeded — “I could have 
shown you letters (I begged them of him), written 
as between brother and brother, from the foremost 
men of science and discovery ! ” 

She stood up, her eyes flashing with excitement. 

“But why did you never tell me?” cried the 
General. 

“He never would allow me — but you — why 
did you not ask me ? I will tell you ; you were 
too proud to mention your son. But he had pride 
to match yours — ha ! — achieving all — every 
thing — with an assumed name! ‘Let me tell 
your father,’ I implored him ; but — ‘ let him find 
me out,’ he said, and you never found him out. 
Ah ! there he was fine. He would not, he said. 


MADAME D^LICIEUSE 


325 


though only for your sake, re-enter your affections 
as any thing more or less than just — your son. 
Ha!” 

And so she went on. Twenty times the old 
General was astonished anew, twenty times was 
angry or alarmed enough to cry out, but twenty 
times she would not be interrupted. Once he at- 
tempted to laugh, but again her hand commanded 
silence. 

“ Behold, Monsieur, all these dusty specimens, 
these revolting fragments. How have you blushed 
to know that our idle people laugh in their sleeves 
at these things! How have you blushed — and 
you his father ! But why did you not ask me ? 
I could have told you : ‘ Sir, your son is not an 
apothecary; not one of these ugly things but has 
helped him on in the glorious path of discovery ; 
discovery. General — your son — known in Europe 
as a scientific discoverer ! ’ Ah-h ! the blind peo- 
ple say, ‘ How is that, that General Villivicencio 
should be dissatisfied with his son ? He is a good 
man, and a good doctor, only a little careless, that’s 
all. ’ But you were more blind still, for you shut 
your eyes tight like this ; when, had you searched 
for his virtues as you did for his faults, you, too, 
might have known before it was too late what no- 
bility, what beauty, what strength, were in the char- 
acter of your poor, poor son ! ” 

“Just Heaven! Madame, you shall not speak 
of my son as of one dead and buried ! But, if you 
have some bad news ” — 


326 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 


“ Your son took your quarrel on his hands, eh ? ” 

“ I believe so — I think ” — 

“ Well ; I saw him an hour ago in search of 
your slanderer ! ” 

“He must find him ! ” said the General, pluck- 
ing up. 

“ But if the search is already over,” slowly re- 
sponded Madame. 

The father looked one instant in her face, then 
rose with an exclamation : 

“ Where is my son ? What has happened ? Do 
you think I am a child, to be trifled with — a horse 
to be teased ? Tell me of my son ! ” 

Madame was stricken with genuine anguish. 

“ Take your chair,” she begged ; “ wait ; listen; 
take your chair.” 

“ Never ! ” cried the General ; “ I am going to 
find my son — my God ! Madame, you have locked 
this door! What are you, that you should treat 
me so ? Give me, this instant ” — 

“ Oh ! Monsieur, I beseech you to take your 
chair, and I will tell you all. You can do nothing 
now. Listen ! suppose you should rush out and 
find that your son had played the coward at last ! 
Sit down and ” — 

“ Ah I Madame, this is play ! ” cried the dis- 
tracted man. 

“ But no ; it is not play. Sit down ; I want to 
ask you something.” 

He sank down and she stood over him, anguish 
and triumph strangely mingled in her beautiful face. 


MADAME D£LICIEUSE 


327 


“ General, tell me true ; did you not force this 
quarrel into your son’s hand ? I know he would 
not choose to have it. Did you not do it to test 
his courage, because all these fifteen years you 
have made yourself a fool with the fear that he 
became a student only to escape being a soldier ? 
Did you not ? ” 

Her eyes looked him through and through. 

“ And if I did ? ” demanded he with faint defi- 
ance. 

“ Yes ! and if he has made dreadful haste and 
proved his courage ? ” asked she. 

“Well, then,” — the General straightened up 
triumphantly — “then he is my son!” 

He beat the desk. 

“ And heir to your wealth, for example ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

The lady bowed in solemn mockery. 

“ It will make him a magnificent funeral I ” 

The father bounded up and stood speechless, 
trembling from head to foot. Madame looked 
straight in his eye. 

“Your son has met the writer of that article.” 

“ Where ? ” the old man’s lips tried to ask. 

“ Suddenly, unexpectedly, in a passage-way.” 

“ My God ! and the villain ” — 

“ Lives ! ” cried Madame. 

He rushed to the door, forgetting that it was 
locked. 

“ Give me that key ! ” he cried, wrenched at the 
knob, turned away bewildered, turned again tow- 


328 


OLD CREOLE DA VS 


ard it, and again away ; and at every step and turn 
he cried, “ Oh ! my son, my son ! I have killed 
my son ! Oh ! Mossy, my son, my little boy ! 
Oh ! my son, my son ! ” 

Madame buried her face in her hands and 
sobbed aloud. Then the father hushed his cries 
and stood for a moment before her. 

“ Give me the key, Clarisse, let me go.” 

She rose and laid her face on his shoulder. 

“ What is it, Clarisse ? ” asked he. 

“ Your son and I were ten years betrothed.” 

“ Oh, my child ! ” 

“ Because, being disinherited, he would not be 
my husband.” 

“ Alas ! would to God I had known it ! Oh ! 
Mossy, my son.” 

“ Oh ! Monsieur,” cried the lady, clasping her 
hands, “ forgive me — mourn no more — your son 
is unharmed ! / wrote the article — I am your 

recanting slanderer ! Your son is hunting for me 
now. I told my aunt to misdirect him. I slipped 
by him unseen in the carriage-way.” 

The wild old General, having already staggered 
back and rushed forward again, would have seized, 
her in his arms, had not the little Doctor himself 
at that instant violently rattled the door and shook 
his finger at them playfully as he peered through 
the glass. 

“ Behold ! ” said Madame, attempting a smile ; 
“ open to your son ; here is the key.” 

She sank into a chair. 


MADAME D^LICIEUSE 


329 


Father and son leaped into each other’s arms; 
then turned to Madame : 

“ Ah ! thou lovely mischief-maker ” — 

She had fainted away. 

“ Ah ! well, keep out of the way, if you please, 
papa,” said Dr. Mossy, as Madame presently re- 
opened her eyes ; “ no wonder you fainted ; you 
have finished some hard work — see; here; so; 
Clarisse, dear, take this.” 

Father and son stood side by side, tenderly re- 
garding her as she revived. 

“ Now, papa, you may kiss her ; she is quite her- 
self again, already.” 

“ My daughter ! ” said the stately General ; 
“ this — is my son’s ransom ; and, with this, — I 
withdraw the Villivicencio ticket.” 

“You shall not,” exclaimed the laughing lady, 
throwing her arms about his neck. 

“ But, yes ! ” he insisted ; “ my faith ! you will 
at least allow me to remove my dead from the 
field.” 

“ But, certainly ;” said the son ; “ see, Clarisse, 
here is Madame, your aunt, asking us all into the 
house. Let us go.” 

The group passed out into the Rue Royale, Dr. 
Mossy shutting the door behind them. The sky 
was blue, the air was soft and balmy, and on the 
sweet south breeze, to which the old General 
bared his grateful brow, floated a ravishing odor 
of— 

“ Ah ! what is it ? ” the veteran asked of the 


OLD CREOLE DAYS 






younger pair, seeing the little aunt glance at 
them with a playful smile. 

Madame Delicieuse, for almost the first time 
in her life, and Dr. Mossy for the thousandth — 
blushed. 

It was the odor of orange-blossoms. 





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